


A Ghost of a Rose

by AnaGraves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Northern politics, eventually, winter is coming, yes this is that trope but it will take a lot of time to get there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:01:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 80,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24137779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnaGraves/pseuds/AnaGraves
Summary: Know your strengths. Use them wisely.Stop running.There's no justice in this world unless we make it.The words rushed through Sansa's head as in the Godswood of Winterfell the lone Stark wolf married the Warden of the North. A murderer of her family, the one who put a knife in her brother's heart. She will use her strengths. She will stop running. She will make her justice. And when the time comes, they will all pay.AU take on season 5, with Sansa marrying Roose instead of Ramsay.
Relationships: Roose Bolton/Sansa Stark
Comments: 161
Kudos: 306





	1. All That Remains

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there, fair ladies and gentlemen! I welcome you here with a story I never thought I would write, not to mention publish, but here I am, spending my lockdown writing a Sansa/Roose thing and having plenty of fun with it. So I thought, why not share it? 
> 
> I haven't published anything in two years, and it feels terrific to be back. I was rewatching GoT to return to my other story (Jaime & Brienne) when suddenly my interests shifted and out of nowhere, I got interested in the one named Roose Bolton. I dreamt of this story a few days after, and I've been writing it ever since! I feel obliged to warn you, this is the most sexual thing I've ever written, and the first time I'm using the E rating.  
> The title of the story comes from a Blackmore Night's song I've been obsessed with while writing the beginnings of this story. The canon (at least for Sansa) is present up till the moment at Moat Cailin.
> 
> I'll shut up for now. This chapter feels more like a prologue than anything else. Enjoy and let me know what you think!
> 
> **Disclaimer:** I obviously don't own anything of Game of Thrones - everything belongs to GRRM and, sadly, D&D.

** Part One  **

** The Game  **

There weren’t many things in life Sansa would still want for herself. She had been bent, bruised, despised, tormented, mentally and physically abused. Her dreams had been shattered in the cruelest of ways. Her family had been killed, slaughtered even. She had been wed against her will and watched her husband being humiliated again and again. She had witnessed her own aunt turning against her for the man who killed her shortly after.

Sansa Stark was broken. She had no one left in this world. She was utterly alone.

There had been only one dream left in her, somehow still alive and well. She could hope for revenge, for the people who had wronged her and her family to pay for their sins, but she knew she was in no position to enact it. And so she had dreamed of safety. Peace and quiet. Just a moment when she would be able to breathe without constantly fearing for her life or virtue. Without people who wanted to hurt her.

As it turned out, even that one seemingly simple dream had been too much to wish for. The gods which she no longer even believed in had decided she didn’t deserve rest. If her fate was to look as it was planned, in their opinion she had to deserve the worst.

She had no idea what she had done in her life for fate to treat her so cruelly. There was still a belief people had to get what they deserved flickering deep inside her. A lot of events involving the Lannisters could prove this theory right: Joffrey and Tywin had been murdered, Cersei had lost her beloved firstborn. But none of her family had got what they deserved. Not father, not mother, not Robb, not Bran or Rickon. Not Lady, not Grey Wind. Not her.

Petyr had set it out to her like she had had a choice, like everything had been up to her. He had said they could have turned the horses around and leave. But when she had protested he had coated it with bittersweet words of revenge and power of avenging her family from within. He had said he had cared so much for her he would have never done anything that could hurt her.

That had been the moment he had lost her.

He had lied to her, tricked her into a false sense of safety, let her believe he had had a perfect solution for both of them, when in fact he had sold her like a common mare, clothing it in poetic words of justice. It might have worked for a little broken bird in King’s Landing a few years prior, but not for a new her she had become. She might be broken, but the scars she wore on her body and soul had made her wiser. Braver. Stronger. She wasn’t going to play the game Littlefinger had set up for her.

She was going to play her own game.

Standing on that hill and staring down at Moat Cailin she had decided a lot more than just going to Winterfell and marrying a Bolton. She had decided that from now on, she won’t be a pawn in other people’s games. Petyr desired to gain power through her and sit on the Iron Throne with her by his side, ruling over all the Seven Kingdoms. Roose Bolton wanted to secure his position in the North and win Stark loyalists over by marrying an heir to Winterfell into his house. She wasn’t a pawn they could move around as they pleased. One day, she will show them what she was made of. One day, they will all see. And they will pay.

But it wasn’t this day, sadly. Upon arriving at Winterfell, this new, hostile Winterfell that felt nothing like home, she had analyzed her chances and opportunities, weighing everything carefully, measuring her strengths. She wasn’t afraid, determined to face whatever was coming with as much bravery and dignity as she could only muster, with a newly crafted heart of steel.

Though Winterfell was now smothered with banners of a flayed man, there were a lot of people remembering her family - Stark loyalists. Even the smallest acts of kindness, such as a smile hastily cast in her direction, lifted her spirits and ignited her courage, making her feel victorious. She might not feel at home right at the moment, but it was her castle. It will always be.

In the days leading to the wedding, she hadn’t been bothered much by anyone, except for some servants and handmaidens sent to check if her gown was fit, if she was well prepared. She hadn’t seen her future husband at all, even during meals, which she had been consuming in a rather peculiar company of one former bastard and his pet, once called Theon Greyjoy. The pet she might detest more than anyone else around her at the moment; even looking at him was enough to make her fingers tighten the grip on any tool she was holding. His owner seemed to take some peculiar glee from observing her reactions and always saw to it that Reek was present whenever she was around.

Hatred and disgust were filling her heart, towards the traitors around her, towards the house she would be a part of through marriage, towards everything and everyone. She nourished the feelings, at the same time trying to keep them at bay; she had learned long ago she had to hide them carefully if she ever wanted to play any game of her own. Her first meeting with lord Bolton had been a show of her nerves of steel; she had greeted him with a graceful smile, without as much as a flinch. But that had been just a fleeting moment - after days alone with her hatred, she feared she wouldn’t be as stoic when she would see him again. And again. And again. In every possible situation. And so she had started practicing. Every single day, she had been standing in front of a mirror, trying on masks of stoic faces, gracious smiles, graceful curtsies and bows. As polite as possible; not overly pleasant, but also not hostile. That was important. She couldn’t behave hostilely if she ever wanted to gain his trust, but she also couldn’t seem carefree: no one in their right mind would ever believe Sansa Stark didn’t feel resentment towards the murderers of her family. And from what she had heard, he was no fool. No, she had to perfect her act, mixing each ingredient perfectly and sensibly. And so she had practiced, in the solitude of her childhood chamber, alone with her silence and hatred.

It hadn’t been easy, but it was still the simplest part. After her time in King’s Landing and days of practicing, she wasn’t afraid her mask will fall during their daily interactions. What she dreaded, though, was the night and all of the atrocities the darkness will bring to the light.

Sansa had been a wife, once; it had been a most artificial marriage, to one of the gentlest men across the whole Westeros. Despite that, she still knew nothing about the practical duties of a wife. Tyrion had spared her their wedding night; now, she wished he hadn’t. She wished he had claimed her as his because it would have changed so much. Maybe she wouldn’t find herself in the current situation at all; maybe she wouldn’t be so terrified as she was. Either way, it would have been better.

She had no idea what kind of a man her future husband would be to his wife; she decided to suspect the worst. Someone so cruel, so ruthless, wouldn’t suddenly be gentle in a bedchamber, especially in a strictly political marriage used as a power play. The wedding night was what she truly dreaded and she could do nothing about it. She feared he would break her in this one final way; she feared her body would betray her, closing itself for the mind. It wasn’t about the pain itself; she had known pain. She hadn’t known... _that_.

Younger Sansa had dreaded her first married night, detesting her imp husband, who had always been nothing but kind and gentle to her. She had known it might have been much worse, having to look at Joffrey every single day, but still, her childish heart had wanted better, had wished for the Knight of the Flowers, and she had cursed her fate.

What had younger Sansa known about dread? What had she known about detesting? She wanted to laugh at her younger self’s stupidity, but she wasn’t able to, her throat squeezing with fear.

Her carefully-laid plans might come to ruin during that one terrifying night. Everything depended on those moments, and his treatment of her alone. She hated the helplessness she experienced at the fact nothing will be up to her, her fate once again slipping through her fingers, handed to someone else to dispose of. Will she be able to survive it with dignity? Will she keep her appearances? Or will it fall apart even before any game truly began, leaving her a broken shell of a woman, in worse shape than ever before?

She didn’t know. Only time could bring the answers and reveal her the future.

What frustrated her additionally was that she didn’t know when exactly the wedding will take place. No one had told her that, and she hadn’t asked. Asking would reveal she cared - or rather feared - and she didn’t want to see the satisfied glint in the bastard’s eyes that sometimes appeared there, making her uneasy. This futile waiting had seemed rather strange, but soon everything cleared up as one day, during her stroll through the castle, she heard horses approaching the gates.

Her future husband had simply been absent from Winterfell.

Sansa watched from the balcony as the riders drew closer to the gates. She wasn’t allowed to leave the castle on her own, so she always had a company of Theon - or rather Reek - and a single soldier. They feared she might run away. Run away to _where_? She would ask if anyone questioned her. Castle Black? Because _maybe_ Jon was there, _maybe_ it would be safe there, _maybe_ they would take her in?

Too many maybes. Way too many.

Besides, from the practical point of view, it was way too far to run and avoid being caught, and Sansa wasn’t used to running. Even though, in a way, she had been on the run since the day of Joffrey’s wedding.

She had stopped running.

The horses reached the courtyard, the gates closing behind them. Her future husband and four Bolton soldiers. Maybe they had been visiting the Twins, she thought briefly, to inform lord Frey of whatever had become of his granddaughter Walda, making sure the Frey-Bolton alliance still stood strong. Sansa had heard the woman had briefly been Roose Bolton’s wife until her untimely demise. She didn’t know what exactly had befallen, nor did she care. Whatever it was, Sansa was certain it won’t happen to her.

Because she was no Walda Frey.

She was the sole heir of Winterfell. She was the Key to the North. She was the North.

A valuable good, no doubt about that.

As they dismounted their horses, her future husband had to sense someone staring at him, because he turned around, looking for the source of this sensation, until he spotted her. For a moment their eyes locked and no one made a move; then, he bowed his head. She repeated the gesture and immediately walked away, feeling his eyes on her until she disappeared inside the castle.

Her heart beat strongly somewhere in her throat. Him being back meant the wedding will happen soon. Practice time was over, and the dreaded day was nigh, almost upon her.

They didn’t let her wait any longer. Barely a few hours following her return to her chambers, there was a knock on the door. Before she could even respond the door opened, revealing the bastard - a young man with the craziness in his palish blue eyes. Ramsay.

The interactions they had shared had been brief, but they had been more than enough to make her feel uneasy whenever in his company. Something in him made her cringe. She didn’t know exactly what it was: the crazed gaze, the way people behaved around him, Th-Reek's condition, or that peculiar unease he was evoking. Maybe it was all of that combined.

“It’s time, my lady.”

He offered his arm to her and waited with an artificial grin plastered on his face. She scoffed at him.

“I need to get properly dressed first. My lord.” There was a mockery in her voice in the way she addressed him, and from the glint that briefly appeared in his eyes, she knew he heard it. He quickly composed himself, however, and smiled at her even wider.

“Of course. We wouldn’t have you marry anyone dressed like... that.” He gestured at her dark gown like it was meant to be an insult; she had prided herself in making that dress, but his opinion meant less to her than the snow outside.

He didn’t move an inch, only hid his hands behind his back, still standing in the open door with that stupid grin. She felt heat rising to her cheeks.

“Would you mind?” she asked coldly, gesturing towards the door. He gazed at the wooden surface, then back at her. His mouth formed an “o” as he pretended to realize just now what she meant.

“Do forgive me, my lady. I’ll wait outside.” And with that he returned to the corridor, leaving the door open. Sansa sighed with irritation, stood up, and closed it with a loud thump. He was either that dumb or it was just an act to spite her, she couldn’t be sure as yet.

_We’re_ _all liars here_ , she heard in her mind. Maybe right now it was true to Winterfell as well. Maybe it was true to all Westeros all along and she had simply misunderstood it.

Trying to ignore the frantic beating of her heart she approached the clothes prepared for the ceremony. As during her wedding to Tyrion, she allowed herself a moment for regrets, a moment of mourning for her lost, shattered dreams. She saw herself coming down a sept aisle with her father. Her siblings smiling at her from the crowd, Arya doing some stupid faces, because she was Arya. Oh, how much she missed that little gremlin of a sister...

Her mother proud, shedding a tear of joy. And on the far end of the chamber her lord husband, someone worthy of that title.

Except there was no one worthy and her family was all dead.

She wiped her eyes that started shining with tears she couldn’t let out and shook her head. It was enough. It was too much already for the stability and calmness of her mind that was already raging enough.

Breathing slowly she managed to come back to some resemblance of peace. Ignoring Ramsay completely, she called for the woman that had been designated to be her handmaiden to help her with the wedding gown. Sansa tried her best not to think, focusing on her breathing, on forgetting this time nothing and no one will spare her the wedding night. And she would have to be compliant, as any resistance would hurt only her - it wouldn’t bother him in the slightest. Moreover, she suspected he might even enjoy it. From what she had seen and experienced in the capital, some men seemed to take morbid pleasure in taking women by force. Even their rightful wives.

She couldn’t stop a shudder that rushed through her at the thought. She will comply if he would be merciful; she had no idea what she’ll do if he would choose not to be.

Her handmaiden started doing her hair, and Sansa could only stare at her reflection in the mirror. She tried to look the way she wanted: the heart of steel, the innocence of a young bird, the decisiveness of the woman grown. The strength of a Stark, the temper of a Tully. At least for the next few hours.

Whoever stared right back at her, however, was none of these things. Only the terrified little bird, afraid of having her wings clipped, or rather torn out.

Maybe appearances weren’t that important during the wedding night. Was there a bride not terrified about being deflowered, even if it was a marriage based on love? If there was something like that in the world, of course. Sansa had heard her brother had broken his word to the Freys and married for love. Where had it gotten him if not to an early grave, dug by the very same man she will meet in the godswood?

No, she couldn’t think about Robb or her mother this night. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to look into her future husband’s eyes without turning away with disgust. And that would have some dire consequences.

After the handmaiden dealt with her hair, she helped Sansa cloak herself, and then she was ready. At least on the outside.

_Breathe_ , she thought, casting one last look at the mirror. A beautiful young bride, frightened to the bone.

He will see that during the night, and she couldn’t change it. His bastard didn’t have to, though.

_Breathe_.

She stared at herself until there was nothing in her eyes, until she could stand straight with her head held high, until her hands stopped trembling. Until she was ready from within.

The moment she stepped onto the corridor, Ramsay’s extended arm greeted her; hiding her distaste towards the lad deeply inside, she accepted it and together, hand in hand, they walked out of the castle and into the godswood. Apparently, he was not only to bring her to the clearing but also to assist her in passing her to her future husband, as he didn’t let go of her arm when they reached the woods.

She looked up along the aisle a small gathering of people created, marked with burning lanterns, clad in the darkness, clouded by the falling snow. Her eyes followed it until they reached the heart tree, the rush of blood in her ears too loud to hear anything else.

There _he_ was, under the tree, waiting for her.

Her future husband.

Lord of the Dreadfort. Warden of the North.

Roose Bolton.


	2. For the Night Is Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wedding night ensues.

Sansa didn’t remember much from the ceremony itself. Only that it had happened by the Old Gods, as opposed to her first wedding. Only the touch of his hand on hers as some lord she hadn’t recognized had joined them as one. Only his eyes, his pale, cold eyes staring back at her as they had said their vows. Unrelenting. Unforgiving. Observant. Piercing right into her soul.

She had wanted to look away, but she couldn’t have, both because of the tradition and because of the power they had had over her. It had been like some magical force fastened her eyes into the spot, condemning her to gaze into those two pits of an icy abyss for the whole eternity.

When she had finally been able to look away, she had felt like she had been awoken from a deep dream. She hated that. She wasn’t going to let him have any power over her, not now, not ever. But, as she had allowed herself to exclude this day from her plans - it was too unstable and unpredictable - she wasn’t going to berate herself for a moment of weakness.

Today, and only today, it was allowed.

She sat next to him at the high table in the Great Hall as the wedding feast continued, catching herself for a countless time at referring to him in her mind only and entirely as that - “him”.

Him. Her husband. Lord Bolton. Roose.

The traitor. The murderer.

Her husband.

Oh, how she missed Tyrion at that moment. She had never thought she could miss a Lannister after everything that house had done to her family, but she definitely did. She missed his kind heart and gentle mind; the feeling of safety when they had been sharing a chamber; the moments of mutual laughter. He was a good man.

She didn’t actually speak to her current husband, not for real at least. She supposed she wasn’t even expected to; she was to be his Stark’s bride and nothing more. A passive figure next to him. A bridge. A key to the North.

“Lady Sansa. Lord Bolton.” She heard someone addressing her, which broke her out from her reveries. There was a man in front of their table, a gentle smile on his lips, a gift in his hands. She recognized him vaguely as one of the Northern bannermen she had probably seen once or twice a long time ago. Was he a traitor himself that he was still alive?

Everyone around her had to be either a traitor or a fool, there was no in-between. Who, in their right mind, would want to visit the Boltons, especially when it was about a wedding? Therefore, the number of attendants was rather small, and it didn’t surprise her. She was going to learn all of their names and deeds, starting from the morrow. Today her mind was shut.

She gazed briefly at her husband; he was watching her, his face indifferent. Their eyes locked for a moment, then she returned her attention to the bearer of the gift.

“My lord.” She bowed her head slightly and managed a polite, yet restrained smile, her insides twitching as she did so.

“A small gift on your wedding day.” The man laid something on the table in front of her. She gazed down at it, barely registering what it was - an embroidered material, or maybe a full gown: little wolves surrounded by flayed men staring at her.

Flayed men.

Her insides turned once again, this time from anger. She was a wolf. She will always remain a wolf, no matter who and how hard would try to change that.

“We are very happy you came back home, my lady,” the man added quieter. She looked at him, taken aback. Those were some bold words. Someone might have to pay for such familiarity which sounded like a token of loyalty to House Stark, either her or that lord. Someone surely will.

“As we all are.” She heard next to her and turned her head to look at her husband. He didn’t seem happy, but entirely indifferent, studying her observantly.

“Thank you, my lord.” She bowed her head in acknowledgment of his words after which she returned her attention to the small line of lords leaving gifts “on her wedding day”. She couldn’t look at the man next to her for any longer than that, she couldn’t force herself to do so, and not turn away with disgust. Especially given the fact she would have to look at him later on, definitely without turning away with disgust.

She thought he, in fact, had to be at least satisfied she was here. The Key to the North might be the most desirable bride in the entire realm at the moment. A lord who had a Stark in his grasp controlled Winterfell, controlled Northerners and the whole North. They all desired the power her home had. They desired _her_ badly, but not for her exactly, only her name; not for her body itself, only for what it could give to them. A true Stark heir to the North. A true power no one would be able to deny.

And her body was now his, from this day till someone’s dying day. She truly hoped it would be his.

She greeted the men with smiles and polite words but internally felt worse and worse with every passing second, maybe even worse than during her first wedding. The walls, once inviting and safe - even though she had always felt like a prisoner here they had always meant home - were now cold and hostile, trapping her inside. The faces, smiling and kind, were surely of traitors and it was all just a farce. They all mixed into one as she felt like she was suffocating from the inside. Walls were closing in on her as she lacked the air to breathe. Someone was constantly refilling her wine cup, and she drank because she knew she couldn’t do it sober. Her head was dizzy and heavy, but probably not from the alcohol alone. Through the veil of mist surrounding her reality, she noticed the whole wine destined for the two of them was consumed by her and her only: he didn’t drink. Maybe she should have asked, but she wasn’t able to. Faces were distorting right in front of her eyes, her ears filled with the rush of her own blood and the incoherent buzz around her, her lungs on fire, her insides squeezed tightly. People, so many people all around, and the noises, further mulling her senses...

Suddenly, everything stopped. People went silent and started staring at their table, her world slowing its rapid race around her head. She gazed to her left and saw him standing up, offering her his hand. He said something, but the only words she heard were “time “and “my lady”. For a moment she just stared at his hand, trying to steady her racing heart. Finally, she accepted it and let him help her to her feet. She was surprised she was able to stand on her own, so heavy her legs felt. Her hand was shaking, and she could do nothing about it. He had to sense it, there was no way he didn’t.

Foolish body with its foolish reactions.

He led her out of the Great Hall, out from the sight of the people. Through her clouded mind, she realized there was no bedding ceremony - luckily, one less humiliation she would have to endure. Maybe the Boltons were too hated to have it. Or maybe she was too important to have her treated in such a way.

She immediately wanted to burst out laughing at the silly thought. She hadn’t been too important when she had had her clothes ripped in the Throne Room, or when the king himself had ordered his Kingsguard to beat her, threatening her with a crossbow. The bedding paled in comparison.

They walked in silence; she gazed only ahead, feeling him looking at her. He was holding her hand ever so slightly, and she managed to diminish the shaking, though it was most probably still there. It could shake from the sheer force with which her heart was exploding in her chest.

She did her best not to think about what was to come but failed miserably. The wine in her blood was supposed to somehow make it easier; she had even thought she had drunk too much, but right now she felt she hadn’t drunk enough.

They came to a stop before some chamber that was not her childhood one; she felt the slightest of relieves - the very same walls she had been a girl in wouldn’t have to witness her becoming a woman. Was it supposed to be their marriage chamber?

He finally let go of her hand, opening the door for her. She stepped inside, immediately catching her reflection in the mirror, located exactly in front of the entrance.

A scared little bird she truly was.

At least it was a beautiful bird, she thought bitterly. A beautiful bird with no control whatsoever. She didn’t want anything that was about to happen to actually happen, but by agreeing to take him as her husband she had also agreed to _that._ It was too late to change that and she knew that.

Stepping further into the room, she took in her surroundings. She didn’t know which chamber it was, but it was bigger than her childhood one, the bed proudly standing at the wall, clad with candles while the hearth burnt strong, casting eerie light onto it. It definitely wasn’t her father and mother’s old chamber, or if it was it had been changed beyond recognition. 

Sansa heard him closing the door behind them and her reality narrowed to this moment and this moment alone: nothing else mattered. She felt dizzy once again as she turned around and looked at him. He casually removed his fur and threw it on the chest near the door, his face still wearing the very same expression.

She tried to follow his lead, but her fingers tumbled around the laces of her cloak, too shaky to get anything done.

_Breathe,_ she thought, calming her breathing. Or rather trying to, because nothing seemed to work. _Breathe._

She managed to get rid of her cloak and laid it carefully on the stool next to the mirror. Dressed in a thick wooden gown, she already felt exposed.

And with absolutely no idea how to proceed.

_Think._

The fact he did absolutely nothing, waiting for her move, seemed like a sign he wasn’t going to take her by force, didn’t it? She made herself look at him, a thousand thoughts in her mind, but only one wish, loud and clear.

“My lady,” he spoke, which was neither a question nor a statement.

_My lady._ Another good sign - an indication he had at least a grain of respect for her.

_I don’t know what to do,_ almost spilled out of her mouth; it would fit the part of an innocent bird. But today she wasn’t playing. Today she was a truly terrified girl about to lose her maidenhead to one of the cruelest men in the whole Seven Kingdoms. She had every right to be terrified.

Probably the answer to what to do was simple: undress and lie down, awaiting her dreadful fate, silently accepting it. But she was Sansa Stark, not some lowborn peasant wife. She had nothing to lose by stating her wish as loud and clear as it sounded in her head, nothing at all because she literally had nothing, but possibly a lot to gain.

“I have only one request, my lord,” she said, wondering how exactly she managed to get the words out in such a steady and calm manner.

“I’m listening.”

And he truly was, leaning casually against the chest, waiting.

“I..." _Breathe, Sansa._ "I would like not to be raped today.” _Or any other day._

If the blunt honesty surprised him, he didn’t let it show. Her cheeks, though, burnt the most vivid level of red. She breathed hard, awaiting his answer.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He tilted his head and watched her closely. “As long as you know your duties as a wife.”

“I know my duties as a wife,” she answered quietly. She knew the basics of what she had to endure, and in some twisted way, he had her consent.

“Then we have an agreement.” He took a step forward and she got a hint: a time for talking had just passed. “Undress, if you may.”

She nodded her head, concentrating only on this simple task. It was better this way than having him undress her - she could do it at her own pace while getting her mind focused on something concrete. The fact she could do it herself made her feel a tiny bit better: the moment his hands would find their way around her body got delayed for at least a few minutes.

It was unavoidable, however, and soon she was standing in front of him naked, as bare as the gods had made her. Cold attacked her body and she had to use all of her inner strength not to cover herself. Her hair made its way down her body, obscuring her breasts, but she felt dreadfully exposed. Her chest heaved with her every breath while she stood with her legs pressed tightly together, squeezing them to keep the most of her out of the view.

She was a proud wolf, and even though the situation took all of her pride away, leaving her bare in more aspects than only one, she glared straight up at him as he walked over to her. He was still clothed, the thin tunic and breeches left on him. Good. She didn’t want to see any more of him than she already had.

He gazed down, scrutinizing her naked body, assessing his prize. With an almost gentle touch, he moved her hair behind her back to get a full view of the bought goods. The goods that had secured him the North. The goods that were to give him an heir.

She did whatever she could not to shudder or shy away from his gaze, all the time staring determinedly at his face, which was completely unreadable. There seemed to be something like a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, but she couldn’t be quite sure. When he was done with the assessment, he took a step back and looked her in the eyes.

“Have you ever been with a man, my lady?” he asked like he was enquiring about the weather.

Petyr had had to convince him she hadn’t while selling her to him, but apparently he wanted to hear a confirmation directly from her, or maybe catch her on a lie. She really wanted to lie, to see his expression finally changing, see him thinking he had made a bad trade and bought something irreparably broken - which, in a way, he had. Sadly, she knew such a lie couldn't stand its ground, dying as soon as the act was started. He would know.

“No,” she admitted truthfully, her voice verging on disappointment.

“Then I’m afraid there will be a little hurting involved.” Again, his tone couldn’t be more neutral.

“I know.” She cast him a dark, yet brave look, the bravest she could muster. She had been taught by a septa and lived years in King’s Landing, she knew the basics. Nevertheless, the teachings had been really scarce and what she had witnessed had been much more... educational, yet still leaving her painfully aware of her own lack of knowledge about whatever truly happened between a man and a woman in the confines of their bedchamber.

“Lie down,” he commanded, and she obeyed. The sheets against her back felt soft and warm, but she shivered nonetheless. Her heart was somewhere in her throat, her mind all over the place, eyes fixated on the ceiling, insides squeezing, burning, making it hard to breathe. “Spread your legs.”

She closed her eyes and would pray to the gods for it to be already over, or for them to spare her, if there was at least a vestige of faith left in her. There wasn’t.

Slowly, she did as she had been told, slightly opening her legs. It demanded all of her free will not to squeeze them shut right after. Cold air invaded her most sensitive parts; at the same time she experienced a blaze of shame, feeling his gaze _there_. No one had seen her, no one had touched her, no one had done anything to her _there_. Until this very moment.

Her body strained even more when his hands dug into the skin of her thighs, forcing her legs further apart. Almost on the verge of breaking, she expected the pain to come any moment, awaiting the worst, wishing for it to be over even before it began, her eyes shut tightly, her whole frame shivering.

The sensation that came was everything but pain, and it made her startle in sheer surprise. Some chill jolted up her spine as she tried to comprehend what that feeling was. The second one elicited a gasp, her mind racing. Was that... pleasure? What...

“Vocal, are you?”

She lifted her head slightly, her chest heaving, and caught the sight of him between her spread thighs, his face on the level of her woman parts, his fingers _on_ her woman parts. Her heart sped up even more, if such a thing was still possible.

“Forgive me...” she mumbled because it felt like the right thing to say, but he cut her short.

“Nothing to forgive, my lady.” Was that a smirk she saw? “You may be as vocal as you like.”

She had no idea what she liked, but apparently, she was about to find that out. Did men like their women loud? So everyone could hear they claimed their prize?

She couldn’t ponder on it anymore as her mind seemed to transport in its entirety to her intimate parts, as he touched her where no one, not even herself, had ever had.

She felt his fingers barely brushing alongside her folds, which made her inexperienced and oversensitive body burn from the very start. Something inside her, something _down there_ , slowly invited the unknown fire, which only grew with his every ministration. Her body seemed to scream as his fingers were doing something inexplicable to her, until they found something else that made her cry out and involuntarily buck her hips, her mind losing control over her. He drew circles around that place, slowly at first, speeding up later on, to go slow once again. She had difficulty breathing because nothing else counted - there were only the sensations that came with the fire, emanating from her core, spreading into every cell of her body. It felt like she was going to break any time soon, those unknown feelings overwhelming her, when suddenly his fingers went slowly down, leaving that precious bud unattended, and she almost moaned with disappointment. In the following second she forgot her name, the pleasures too much to stop them, too much to even try; she let it devour her, crying out as her first-ever release ripped through her violently, her whole body shaking, her eyes rolling, her fingers twisting the sheets beneath her.

It didn’t last long, but the fire didn’t entirely go away even when the pleasure subsided. Only now did she realize what exactly had triggered it - it was his mouth on that little nub that made her burn so much. She shuddered from the thought, shame devouring her for one brief moment only to quickly subside, making a place for another fire to burn bright. While his tongue so pleasurably tortured this blazing bundle, his fingers found her opening and started teasing it. She felt her own wetness coating his digits, and absent-mindedly wondered about it: it couldn’t be blood, because there had been no pain yet, only undiluted delight. Was it the proper reaction her body should have had? It had to help him ease his fingers inside her without any trouble, and though the sensation was new and slightly uncomfortable at first, the slickness made it easy for him to pump them in and out shallowly without causing the pain, and the uneasy feeling quickly dissipated.

Feeling a sting of guilt in the back of her mind for letting him do that to her, she really tried to be restrained this time, to not receive any more positive feelings from the man who had murdered her family; she repeated the word “murderer” in her mind all over again, to no avail - her body betrayed her, and she felt so much, not at all the pain she had been expecting. She sensed so much she couldn’t hold it back. Maybe because she had truly drunk too much, or maybe because it felt so good; she had no idea, her thoughts incoherent, almost as incoherent as the sounds escaping her mouth.

Once again she was writhing on the bed, her hands twisting the sheets, her eyes closed shut, her whole body a prisoner of his mouth and fingers. As long as she didn’t see him, she could imagine it was someone else. It wasn’t Roose Bolton doing this to her; those were just someone’s fingers and lips, someone without a name. Definitely not him.

The fire inside her burnt stronger and stronger; it probably lasted seconds or a couple of minutes, but it seemed like an eternity of endless bliss as she forgot everything, the closer she was to the second explosion. It took a luscious lick along the whole length of her folds and she was gone, the fire consuming her, everything too extreme, everything too new. She clenched around his fingers, uttering all kinds of sounds she had no idea could be uttered. She didn’t even fully heard them; she only felt, her whole being restricted to her intimate parts.

When she finally got back down from the heights of pleasure and managed to recall how to breathe, she sensed the act proceeded to its second part as he abandoned the position between her legs. For a moment she had forgotten it was barely an introduction leading to something else entirely. What she had dreaded the most was still upon her; however, the dread had been significantly lessened by the recent wonders she had experienced. It didn’t mean she wasn’t frightened - she still was, but her body didn’t strain, relaxed and almost ready, while her mind seemed too clouded by some haze, making her unable to guard herself properly.

“This is the part that’s going to hurt.”

She nodded hastily, fastening her gaze on the ceiling, focusing on her breathing alone, deep through the mouth: inhale, exhale, repeat.

_Inhale._

She let him spread her thighs further and hook one of her legs to place it on his shoulder.

_Exhale._

She felt the material of his tunic on her skin; it meant he didn’t even undress fully.

_Inhale._

She closed her eyes again as she sensed him moving higher, hovering over her, his hands at both sides of her body.

_Exhale._

There was no time to think after she felt the tip of his manhood at her entrance because in the next second he thrust deep into her in one swift move.

What was that, about knowing pain? Though she felt like she was being torn apart, she didn’t want to cry out from pain; instead, she bit her lower lip so hard she felt blood running down her chin. The very same blood she felt now all over her thighs, she supposed. Everything hurt, everything burnt in the most unpleasant ways. Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, her nails digging hard into her arm to focus on some other pain, much more familiar one.

“Breathe.”

His voice almost startled her and her eyes snapped open, immediately stumbling upon his pale gaze. She realized his remark was befitting, as for a moment she really forgot to repeat the pattern and ceased breathing. He probably didn’t need confirmation, but she frantically nodded her head nonetheless.

He started moving, thrusting into her, first slowly, then picking up the pace. She didn’t close her eyes again but looked at the fire sparkling happily in the hearth. Tears streamed down her face as the sensation of being torn apart continued, but eventually dried out, alongside the diminishing pain. Her body seemed to adapt to his length pretty quickly, and soon only the uncomfortable stretching remained.

She had no idea how long it lasted, but she supposed it was rather long. He seemed to have quite a stamina as he thrust and thrust into her, their bodies slapping, her hips meeting his movements out of their own volition. She had been pretty quiet this time, but a gasp escaped her lips when he roughly pulled her other leg up as well and pounded into her even deeper. Her breathing became more shallow again as the pain resurfaced, but only for a moment; she felt something else slowly building inside her, gazing shyly through the unpleasant stretch. She supposed it won’t have time to reach any point of being pleasurable, as his movements became rather erratic, and his breathing slightly sped up. Curiosity nudged her to look at him at his peak of pleasure to check for any sign of emotion on this impassive face of his, but she resisted the urge and continued staring at the flames instead.

Finally, something like a small growl broke from his throat and after two more thrusts, he spilled himself inside her. She did her best to remain unmoved.

He eased out of her and left the bed. She managed to unfasten her eyes from the flames only when she was sure he was properly dressed.

“Shall I call for your handmaiden to prepare you a bath?” he asked, surprising her yet again. It was the smallest act of kindness, but welcomed nonetheless, especially that she had expected none from him.

“If you’d be so kind, my lord,” she answered, sitting up, letting her hair cover as much of her as it was only possible. She needed the veil it could give her, even though he had already taken what was his, even though he had seen everything there was to see.

He nodded in confirmation.

“We’ll talk about your other duties in the morning.” She didn’t have the strength to think about what “other duties” he had in mind. “My lady.” He bowed slightly, casting her one last parting look.

And then he was gone, like nothing had just happened. It had been nothing for him, most probably. And in time, it will be nothing for her as well. Today, however, for her body at least, it was everything.

Her eyes darted to the sheets between her legs, red and glistening, the same as her thighs. She had been claimed. Her maidenhead had been broken, but without breaking her in the process any more than she already had been. Though she felt sore and used, shameful and tiny bit humiliated, her cheeks burning, she knew one thing: if he was going to keep his promise of not hurting her, she would be forever grateful he didn’t make this night her living nightmare. Which of course won't stop her from hating him.

He turned out to be true to at least some of his words - her handmaiden appeared in the chamber, made her a bath, cleansed her, and changed the sheets. Sansa was too numb to think at that point.

Lying in bed, she felt all the nervousness of the last few days leaving her and she fell asleep in an instant, sleeping through the night peacefully for the first time since leaving the Eyrie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done it! It was the first E thing I've ever published, so I'm kinda nervous. If you read it, please tell me what you think!
> 
> Greetings,  
> Ana


	3. Lady of Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had plans for this story: write shorter chapters and update them more often. Right now, it doesn't quite work, but I'll try to change it, at least the update part! 
> 
> Now, I need to disclose some things. First, I haven't read the books, so my versions of people and events are a show-only and how I see them (I know, shame on me. I've been trying to find time to read them in the last five years or so and failed miserably). Second, I am not a big fan of writing politics; I've been doing my researches, but Northern politics is still slightly obscure (except for "everyone loves Eddard" and "everyone hates the Boltons"). I'm doing my best, though. Third, canon - most of the events apart from the Northern plot are going their canon-ish way, just... slower. Stannis is a different issue, and I will be stalling him as much as I can. 
> 
> Enjoy and tell me what you think!

Sansa woke up well after the first rays of sunshine crept into her chamber. For a moment she lay still in the bed, remembering, listening, feeling, planning. The furs around her were embracing her tightly, creating the notion of safety, a pleasant warmth all over her body. Maybe she could stay here forever and no one would notice her absence? It didn’t sound like such a bad idea. Sadly, she knew it was completely impossible.

 _We’ll talk about your other duties in the morning,_ sounded in her head. She groaned and buried her face in the pillow, allowing herself this moment before she would truly start a day.

The moment passed, as it had to; ever so slowly she put the furs aside and stood up, discovering she was still sore and that walking wasn’t as easy as always. Apparently, her body won’t let her forget the last night, no matter how hard she would try.

She sat down in front of her mirror and gazed at her reflection. The final transformation into a woman had been completed - it was no longer a maiden gazing back at her, but a woman claimed, deflowered by Roose Bolton out of all people.

She flinched immediately. It might have been the first time, but definitely not the last. If she wanted to play any game, she had to learn how to look at him, think about him, and let him touch her with her disgust hidden as deep as it was only possible, or else any hope for victory would be lost from the very start. She had to erase words like “traitor”, “murderer”, “monster” from her mind. She had spent so many years with monsters in King’s Landing, it shouldn’t have been _that_ hard. True, she hadn’t had to share her bed and her body with any of them, so this situation had to be harder by definition. But she will manage nonetheless.

Since the name “Bolton” merged in her head with the previous three, she shouldn’t have addressed him this way in her mind as well. “Husband” seemed too much; all in all, it was all political and artificial, and she wasn’t going to ever treat him like a true lady wife would. What was left was “him” she had used as far and his given name, completely neutral to her ears.

_Roose._

Well. Shall it be, then.

She heard a knock on the door and, moments later, her handmaiden appeared. Sansa greeted her with a polite smile while the woman blushed and immediately busied herself with Sansa’s hair. The red locks were all over the place; as the handmaiden tried to get them restrained, Sansa stared straight into her own eyes, intently, decidedly. It was Sansa Stark staring right back at her, that will never change. She hadn’t been Sansa Lannister, she wasn’t going to be Sansa Bolton. Never. She was a Stark, always and forever.

While the handmaiden started preparing her clothing, Sansa mused on her previously created plans. The last night hadn’t changed them; it had actually made them easier. Probably. Maybe.

There weren’t many things she cold use against house Bolton, and she had to use every single one of them if she ever wanted to see any results.

First, her name. It was her most important possession - her name spoke to every Northerner very loud, screamed basically. Stark. It will be her armor, her shield, her key to the people’s hearts. And she needed their hearts. She will get to know every name, every face, every history. She will find her way into their minds, into their houses, into their hearts, against the current oppressors of Winterfell. So when the time will come, everyone, even the Bolton soldiers, would follow her to the death and beyond.

Second, her mind. People might have told her she was a silly girl, but she knew better than that. She wasn’t dumb. She just needed to learn some more, especially how his - Roose’s - mind worked. He will most definitely be a worthy opponent, but she was going to see through his ways. Pretend to do all of her “other duties” with dignity and balanced good-nature, anticipate his needs, be an adviser always one-step forward, and gain his trust to finally stab him in the back, quite literally. He deserved nothing more but the betrayal he would never see coming. She couldn't do that right this very moment, not until she had people around her who would back her up and save her from the consequences if need be.

Last but not least, her body. Despite the extent to which it disgusted her, she was aware the quickest way to get into men’s heads was through the bedchamber. Roose might have seemed perfectly restrained the other night, but he was still a man. And she was a beautiful young woman who needed to use all of her assets to get what she wanted. Pretending to trust him, heeding to his needs, exploring her own. She would also have to learn a lot in that field and probably force herself to do things she would never do in any other circumstances; but it will all be worth it in the end, after she triumphed. Who knew, maybe she will find it enjoyable as well? If he had led her towards her pleasure twice during their first night, could it be worse afterward?

There was also another issue here, the one she tried to steer clear of, but knew she couldn’t. Other houses wanted her not only for her name but also for an heir. Roose was no different. The very idea made her nauseated, but she had to face the facts: it will happen. And it will be another factor to use to her advantage. But as for now, she decided to leave it for another time. Now... now was simply not the right moment to think about it.

All in all, she was going to play a polite, quite innocent girl who was also an independent woman knowing what she wanted, inducing respect; she just had to somehow mix those two diverging attitudes. Other options didn't seem very appealing. She could try to show the North she was as miserable as it could only get - it would damage the image of House Bolton even further, but those would be some dangerous steps to take. If she pretended to be miserable, she might eventually get treated accordingly, and she didn’t look forward to the repeat of King’s Landing. No, that was not a good idea. She needed to get Roose wrapped around her finger with grace, charm, and intelligence.

 _Know your strengths, use them wisely_ \- another traitor had told her not so long ago. That was one of a few good pieces of advice Petyr had given her and she was going to live by it. He was next on the list of people to destroy.

Finally dressed, her hair neat, she cast herself one last look in the mirror. She had to be glorious, as glorious as it was only possible. Maybe Roose was too smart to charm him by looks alone, but he wasn’t blind and looks were always well received by men. With that thought, she finally left her chamber, her first steps into the world as a married woman.

The first thing she saw were two guards standing right outside her doors; no Th-Reek this time. It was actually some kind of improvement - one less murderer of her family to look at.

They greeted her with a courteous “my lady” and a bow; she smiled at them graciously. The road to the power led through the hearts, right?

With the escort consisting of the men and her handmaiden, she walked to the Great Hall, gracing everyone she could see with a smile; only a few people responded. Winterfell was a gloomy place right now, filled with gloomy people. Not at all like she remembered it, cheerful and full of life, even despite the strict Northern rules.

Despite the smiling, she felt rather peculiar. Walking still seemed kinda funny, and in the gazes of the passing people she sensed something, or it might be as well her own imagination. Was every married woman looked upon differently following her wedding night? They knew, every one of them knew what she had lost. Some of them had also probably _heard_ it, she realized, the color immediately rising to her cheeks. It somehow felt like every single one of them knew her secret, something that should have remained hidden, but was out in the open. Maybe it was a natural thing at the beginning of the marriage life, she had no idea; still, she felt like she was being judged from every possible side. Even walls judged her, their stones staring down at her in silent reproof.

Most importantly, she judged herself.

Arriving at the Great Hall, she tried not to focus on shame and react normally to the sight of her husband. It should have been doable. Somehow.

They apparently waited with their meals for her, as there were three empty plates on the table. Appearances were important, as always. Upon seeing her they both stood up to greet her: her husband, Roose, and her... stepson, Ramsay.

“My lady.” Roose met her with a courteous bow, to which she answered in the same manner, hoping her cheeks were no longer red.

“My lord.”

“Mother!” Ramsay sprang out from behind the table and kissed her on the cheek, his hands coming to rest on her shoulders. She didn’t expect it, and it almost made her flinch. “Welcome to the family! You may call me Ramsay.”

He took a step back, but his hands remained on her arms, his grip tight, bordering on painful. There was a wide smile on his face, almost a grin; it didn’t reach his eyes, though, and what she saw there made her blood run cold.

“Very well, Ramsay,” she answered, forcing a smile. “You may not call me mother,” she added almost immediately. Maybe she should have waited to understand the dynamics around here, to find her place between the two of them, but she wasn’t going to let a crazy bastard call her like that.

His smile faltered, but he quickly composed himself and nodded.

“As you wish, my lady.” Finally, he let go of her and came back to his place in front of his father, who, as Sansa noticed, didn’t lose sight of Ramsay even for a single second. Before her arrival at Winterfell and during the first couple of days here she had wondered that it might have been better to marry the son instead of the father: he was more or less her age, hadn’t personally murdered any member of her family - as far as she knew, at least - and seemed detached from the games of the big world. That moment was one of many she had already experienced that made her realize she had probably got a better deal. As the pain in her arms slowly faded, she thought that given the chance, she would choose the impassionate pale eyes of the father every single time over the terrifying craziness of the son. 

Roose pulled out a chair and gestured for her to sit by his side. She did, and as they followed her lead, the food started to be put on the table. Apparently, they were keeping as many appearances as it was only possible to make the impression she was a guest here, maybe even a lady, and not a prisoner.

“I hope you slept well.” Small talk? She wasn’t expecting that. Like the other night, his voice was as impenetrable as his eyes, giving away nothing of whatever was going on inside. If anything was going on there, that was.

“Yes, I did.” That was the truth, actually. “It’s good to be home.” She smiled while looking him straight in the eyes.

Appearances, as truthful as possible.

“I can only imagine,” he answered, and she wondered for a hundredth time whether he experienced any human emotions whatsoever, his eyes cold and unrelenting, his expression distant.

They started eating, and she suddenly discovered she was immensely hungry. She hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s morning - during the wedding her insides had been too squeezed for her to swallow anything that wasn’t wine. Now, she could finally take the food properly, her organs no longer tormented by anxiety, craving some proper meal the stress of the last days had denied her.

Therefore, she consumed her meal in an instant, reveling at how good it felt not having to worry about the possible monstrosities of her wedding night that had never come to be. Looking up from her plate, she noticed Ramsay staring at her, his mouth slightly agape.

“Where do you fit all that?” he asked, tilting his head and scrutinizing her frame the way she felt bare under his gaze.

She quickly averted her eyes from him, turning to Roose instead. Maybe being a good wife involved starving herself to death.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t...” she started, convinced now she had to know their ways before setting any part of her plan into motion, but Roose cut her short.

“You definitely should,” he said, his eyes focused on Ramsay. “I think you’ve had enough, on the other hand. Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

There was a moment of intense staring between the two men until Ramsay gave up.

“Of course.” He smiled artificially and stood up, making the obligatory bows. “Father. Lady Bolton.” He smirked at her and finally walked away, his breakfast basically untouched.

 _Lady Bolton._ The words rang in her ears, hostile and unpleasant. That was her name now. Lady Bolton.

Sansa stared in Ramsay’s wake for a moment, before uttering once again, her voice deliberately regretful: “I’m sorry, I...”

“Don’t apologize on behalf of Ramsay. Ever. You are his lady, not the other way around.” She gazed at her husband, trying to comprehend what she was hearing. Maybe it wasn’t even about knowing their ways, but about getting to know this father-son - or maybe rather lord-bastard - relationship they had. It might even be slightly fascinating to watch it unravel and crumble to pieces before their very own eyes. “Eat.”

He put Ramsay’s plate in front of her. She complied with the request quite gladly, as she was still hungry, her stomach finally not nervous enough to allow anything to pass through it. The meals weren’t particularly exquisite - just normal northern fare, mediocre and mostly tasteless; still it felt like heavens for her deprived body.

She felt Roose’s stare at her the whole time but didn’t look up until she was done eating, feeling like she feasted for the whole eternity. That was something she needed.

“You mentioned we’ll talk about my other duties, my lord,” she said immediately after putting her cutlery aside.

“Yes.” He stared at her a moment longer, then stood up. “Walk with me.”

She followed his footsteps as they left the Great Hall and walked through the stone corridors. People they passed almost bowed in half, crouching away; she made sure to give every single one of them a soft, gentle smile. Roose, on the other hand, didn’t do as much as even gaze in their direction.

“What do you know about running a keep?” he asked her after some time of walking in silence.

Scarlet crept onto her cheeks as she felt shame at the thought she won’t have to play a naive girl in this aspect because she truly felt like that. She had never listened to things that hadn’t interested her. Of course, she had always wanted to be a lady wife, but a lady wife of a king and that meant she would have to bother herself only with things like dancing, dresses, knights in shining armors tossing flowers at her feet, admiring her beauty. Not the bookkeeping, stores, problems with peasants, or whatever it was a lord’s wife did. She had detested problems of everyday life; she had detested peasants and everyone who had been different from her, having different dreams and aspirations. Like her sister.

Besides, as with everything else the teachings hadn't been particularly applicable. Nowadays, she clearly saw how useless they had been. The ways of embroidery, sewing, singing, dancing had been meticulously imposed on her and Arya, and Sansa had gladly embraced all of them. But practical things, like running a household or the truth of marital relations? That had been lost in the dark. Maybe those were the topics she hadn't even got a chance to hear because her lessons had been abruptly cut; maybe she would have heard it all later in life. She would never know now.

“Not much,” she answered truthfully, with a hint of regret. She thought it was the good first step towards building their so-called trust - revealing the vulnerability of lack of knowledge. “I’ve been taught a lot as a girl, but it didn't include the details of running a household. I've always thought the time for such serious, adult matters would come later. And it never did.”

“You are an adult now,” he noticed matter-of-factly.

“Yes.” That was undeniable; he had definitely helped in making her one. “I am a quick learner if need be.” And even if she hadn’t been as far, she will be from now on.

“Very well.” They passed the inner yard where people were bustling around with their heads kept low. “Are you aware of the current military status?”

“Yes.” Or at least she thought so; she had heard a lot in King’s Landing, plus Tyrion and her own personal traitor called lord Baelish had always added a few facts then and now. “The war of the five kings isn’t finished: Renly Baratheon, Joffrey, and Robb are dead,” she did her best not to waver at the mention of her brother, which was exactly the moment he decided to look at her, “...but Stannis Baratheon is still alive and posing a threat to the crown. Balon Greyjoy is, I suppose, banished from the dry land as for now, courtesy of your people, and is now hiding on his islands, or maybe even dead.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Plus, by marrying me you had to destroy your alliance with the Lannisters, maybe even the Freys, so we have Cersei against us as well.”

“We?” He gazed at her, and though his voice and gaze were neutral, she sensed he was taunting her, provoking to say something reckless.

“The North,” she specified quickly. Probably in his mind, he was the North. For her role, _they_ had to be the North.

He didn’t comment on her answer, contributing to her words instead. “You forgot the Wildlings, the Targaryen girl, a threat from behind the Wall your bastard brother demands everyone should take care of, and small rebellions all over the North.”

 _Your bastard brother._ She almost showed her true emotions at the words but managed to stop herself in the last moment. So Jon was still on the Wall, still alive. And apparently, he was also someone important?

“I have to take care of all of that. I need you to take care of everything else,” Roose continued, and she forced herself to listen.

They reached the foot of the Library Tower and she looked at him questioningly.

“Like... listening to the Northerners?” she asked cautiously. He gazed at her and she realized it was a foolish question. No Northerner in their right mind would come to the Boltons seeking help unless they wished to be flayed alive for sheer asking. But maybe they will come to her. It looked like she was a reigning Lady of Winterfell, after all.

“Like listening to the Northerners,” he lied smoothly, smiling at her in the most artificial way possible. “Like helping the builders in their projects to rebuild the castle. You know it best.”

She nodded vigorously - she definitely could do that.

He gestured for her to enter the tower and followed her closely behind.

“I don’t think I have to remind you out of all people that winter is coming.” She thought the ending of this sentence would be entirely different and was both glad and surprised at its unfolding. “We need to be prepared, and we are currently everything but prepared. That will be your task as well.”

She could do that. She had no idea how exactly, but she will learn.

They reached the library and walked inside. Sansa almost gasped at the miserable sight spreading before her eyes - burnt shelves, burnt skeletons of once impressive books, burnt everything. She hadn’t been here often as a child, but she still remembered the intimidating atmosphere of the place, the stench of old, long-forgotten knowledge in every corner. There was no trace of it now; like the whole castle, it looked sad and gloomy, barely a remnant of greater things that had been and will not come to be ever again.

“Lady Sansa.”

She spun around and faced the softly smiling, yet slightly embarrassed face of Maester Wolkan.

“Maester,” she greeted him, still slightly dizzy at the sights before her.

“I prepared some practical books on the keeping of households, and Winterfell ledgers, as requested,” he murmured, rushing to the table in the middle of the chamber. “A lot of them survived everything, luckily. They should be very helpful. I’ll try to aid you...”

“No.” They both turned to Roose in surprise. “Lady Sansa will fare well on her own.”

She stared at him for a moment. Of course, the maester seemed like a decent person, so she couldn’t be left with him alone for the fear of conspiring against the Boltons' rule. Simple as that.

“Of course, my lord.” She withstood his gaze with a stoic, impenetrable smile.

“Very well. We’ll leave you to it.” He looked suggestively at the maester who muttered his goodbyes and left the library. After a small bow, Roose followed him out, leaving her with her two soldiers.

 _Not a bad way to spend the day_ , she thought, approaching the table. There were quite a lot of books lying on it, plus a parchment and a quill for her to make notes. It was most definitely work for more than a day, maybe even more than a week - which was a good thing, because she would have something to do, away from both Boltons.

Sitting down, she realized she had no idea what to do about it all, with no one to ask. Would digits with the number of crops stored in Winterfell tell her the truth? Well, they will have to. For her plan, and the North, because getting prepared for the winter was a true, responsible task. Why wouldn’t a castellan or a steward take care of it, or anyone for that matter? Surely she wasn’t going to be treated as a true Lady of Winterfell, and the Warden’s wife, with appropriate duties, or... or was she?

She had a lot of questions, but she decided to answer them all at the silence of her bedchamber, alone at last. Now, she had to work, and get to the bottom of Winterfell’s inner workings.

It was already dark outside when Sansa heard footsteps approaching and realized she had spent the whole day in the library. Those hadn’t been some idle hours - she had been working diligently on the first book she had taken, possibly more diligently than anything else she had done in her life. She had found it both frustrating, as the numbers told her no truths, and fascinating, as she felt empowered with the responsibilities it all had brought to her. Maybe it wasn’t much, but considering it was barely her first day in married life, it was a big first step. Especially that she had expected none of it.

She turned around and stood up, seeing Roose enter the chamber.

“You missed dinner, my lady,” he noticed casually, approaching the table and gazing down at her notes. There were a lot of them, scribbled in her neat handwriting.

“I’m sorry, I must have lost a track of time,” she hurried in an apologetic tone, wondering whether he came to take her to dine with him or rather to resume her other duties already. She definitely preferred the first option.

“You may dine here if you want. Though it makes for a rather gloomy dining room.” He looked around, his gaze lingering at a gaping hole in the roof, through which snow was seeping inside.

Gloomy? Like his home, the Dreadfort, wasn’t the definition of gloomy, from what she had heard. Like he himself alongside his people weren’t another embodiment of this word.

“I’d like that, thank you. There is plenty of things to do and learn, and winter is coming.”

He looked at her at the words, and she thought she preferred thinking how to answer him than withstanding this scrutinizing gaze she couldn’t escape nor see through. It didn’t scare her but made her heart beat quicker nonetheless, in a peculiar feeling he was able to read her every thought, every planned deception, every emotion.

That wasn’t comfortable. Far from it.

He turned to the door, breaking the eye contact, and gestured to someone standing in the threshold. The servant quickly entered and laid a tray on the table with a plate and a cup of wine. She looked up at Roose, surprised.

“You should eat well,” he answered her unasked question.

“Thank you, my lord.”

He nodded and then he was gone, leaving her more shocked than ever. Why was he so considerate of her? What kind of a game was he playing?

She sat down to her meal, thinking. The people in the castle were not entirely Boltons', and the walls always had ears. Information spread around, quickly and unnoticeably for the eyes, impossible to stop once it was born. If everyone observed he was good to lady Stark, the last of the wolves, and even let her have factual duties as the Lady of Winterfell, he could only gain from it. She should have also looked like she was well taken care of, hence the eating part. Content Sansa Stark equaled bigger trust for the Boltons from the Northerners, equaled more reliable power, equaled military numbers if it came to any battle. On the other hand, if there were words she was being mistreated, hold as a prisoner, looking like she was ready to starve herself to death, the whole North would eventually turn their backs on him. Such a power her name had, or at least that was what she believed.

Of course, he didn’t care about what Northmen were feeling or thinking; his doings at the Red Wedding were screaming proof of that. Killing the King in the North had to involve not caring about a lot of things and also the willingness of taking well-calculated great risks, as long as the possible benefits were substantial. However, he wouldn’t be able to keep Winterfell for long, not to mention the whole North, with his forces alone. He needed the Northmen. One wrong move and he would be lost.

She thought, not without a hint of satisfaction, that he was at her mercy. Or at least at the mercy of her name. As long as she didn’t give him an heir to seal the deal.

The thought of the Red Wedding steered her mind in another direction. It still hurt her to think about it, but while eating she started musing on what kind of king Robb had been. She had heard he had had some troubles by the end, and that he had broken his words, but despite those facts, she chose to believe he was a true Stark king: courageous, good, merciful whenever he could be, loved by his people. Whatever the facts, that was the truth she chose to believe in. Her truth.

When she finished her food and let the wine warm her from within, she came back to her books, but soon found herself dozing over it. Was it wine or simple tiredness, it forced her to get her notes and retreat. For a moment she wondered whether she should have taken the books with her, but ultimately decided against it. A lot of things might take place in her chamber, things she wouldn’t necessarily want to remember; the library could be her seclusion. Her _gloomy_ shelter.

After hiding the books on the skeleton shelves to keep them from the snow, she smiled to her guards and left the library. It was already pitch dark outside and she shuddered at the cold; she had underrated the weather as it seemed the winter was already here. Even through a thick cloak and a fur, she felt the ice spike right into her bones. Although a true Northerner, Sansa was a summer child. She flinched at the thought of what the true winter would look like once the Long Night befell them.

In the safety of her chamber, she threw herself before the hearth, putting her gloved hands as close to the fire as it was only safe. Shuddering, she stared at the flames as it slowly warmed her, seeing there a lot of things. Remembering.

The previous thoughts about Robb, the library, Winterfell, heirs, it all amounted to this very moment. Nothing this day had seemed like it was going into such direction, but as the cold lost a fight with the flames and the warmth embraced her, she broke.

Hot tears flowed down her cheeks as she quivered, staring into the fire. She hadn’t allowed herself such a moment of weakness since Robb’s and mother’s deaths; it was way too long, especially considering what she had to endure in the meantime. She needed it to be stronger. She needed to remember to enact her revenge. She needed to hurt to get her final satisfaction.

She had no idea how long it lasted; when she finally stood up her eyes were on fire themselves, her knees sore, but she felt reborn anew. She was ready for everything. For being the steel-hearted Lady of Winterfell.

She changed into her nightgown by herself and lay down, hoping she could get a good night's sleep without any intrusion. Her body didn’t seem ready for the second round, and she definitely didn’t anticipate it emotionally.

Luckily for her, she got her wish granted.


	4. Once Upon a Counsel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This little part should have been published days ago, but once again time was not on my side. I managed to edit it all in one day, because I wanted it to be published on my birthday, per my tradition, so do forgive me for any mistakes! (It's already after midnight at my place, but shh, let's pretend it is not!)
> 
> Reviews would be some lovely gifts! Enjoy!

There were still so many things she hadn't analyzed properly, Sansa mused the next morning. Like who exactly and why had set Winterfell on fire; was it Theon? Ramsay? Or someone entirely else? What exactly had happened to Theon? How bad must he have felt within their family that he had chosen to betray Robb? How had he become Reek? Were all Ironborns banished to their islands? What was Walder Frey's approach to the current situation in the North, considering Walda Frey's "incident" and Roose going against the Lannisters by marrying a Stark? What Petyr was up to now?

She had a lot of questions, some about her family, and she knew they won't get answered any time soon, maybe even never. For now, she had to focus on the questions that might get their solutions. Like how to prepare the North for the Winter. How to rebuild Winterfell. How to get to the Northerners on her own, without anyone else knowing. How to wrap Roose around her finger. How to drive a wedge between him and Ramsay so they would kill each other and spare her the effort.

This was a new idea that had come to her upon awakening. The last night's tears made her feel cleansed, her mind calm and determined. If she had had any doubts before about killing a living person, they were now vanquished. At the end of this road, at the end of her plan, someone will die. If the worst comes to the worst, she will kill them both herself. Somehow. She didn't yet figure out how, but it was an issue for later. Especially that she might play it the way they will do it for her.

It would be a dangerous game for sure, but it was worth a try. She would just have to get inside the minds of both the father and the son, and get to know more about their relationship.

And forget Ramsay's apparent insanity terrified her to the bone.

Simple as that.

There was no sign of the younger Bolton at breakfast, so Sansa chose a spot in front of Roose rather than at his side. More convenient for talking, though soon she discovered there won't be much talking involved. He wasn't a man of many words, apparently.

That won't do. She had to earn his trust and pretend to trust him; this won't be doable if they remained strangers everywhere except the bedchamber. Highly aware of the fact she would have to make an effort regarding this part of her marital duties, she also hoped she would be able to get closer to him in simpler ways.

It wasn't going to be easy, though.

"May we discuss some northern matters when I'm finished with my reading?" she asked when the breakfast was almost over, after they had exchanged a few casual remarks about the weather.

"Yes, we may."

She almost growled at the response. Yes, it was barely a third day, but if she showed him she was satisfied with barely a few spoken words from the very start, it will be difficult to break the habit. The need to change it was raging within her.

She will give herself a few days to get to know him silently, passively, taking notes in her mind for future reference; then she will proceed to a more active role. And so, from that moment, she started observing him closely - though not too intrusively for him to notice - determined to see through every little gesture, every little expression, every little spark in his eyes. And there weren't many. She had met many liars and players in her life, but none of them wore such a perfect mask. Or maybe it wasn't a mask; maybe it was true him. As for now, he seemed impossible to read, but she wouldn't be Sansa Stark if she just gave up. She had come so far already. Her new motto was that _nothing_ was impossible if she put her mind to it. Even though it sounded unreasonable and stood in complete contradiction to the past events of her life, it helped her set her goals straight.

The first sennight passed just like that - Sansa met her husband at breakfast without his bastard around, spoke a few unimportant sentences, tried to observe him closely without him noticing, went to the library, read and learned, came back to her chamber, slept, repeated the cycle the next morning. The more she knew about the management of the castle, the more aware of how much she didn't fathom she became. The records were filled with holes, both because of the books lost in the fires and for the fact there had been years with no one around to keep them. Actually, there had been no one to keep the castle running for so long that currently it was barely a shadow of its old self. Not only because of the broken walls, holes in the roofs and stains from the fire, but also due to the severe lack of vital ingredients necessary to survive the Winter. Or rather to survive anything, for that matter. Were they to come under a siege, they would probably last a month at best. A month. And Winter was coming.

At the end of that first week, she found herself possessing knowledge basic enough for a conversation of some sort. There was still so much to learn on her part, but she already wanted to connect her duties and turn to the active part of being a wife. The sooner, the better.

"Lady Bolton!"

Sansa had a hard time realizing the words were, without a doubt, directed to her. She had heard it before, from Ramsay; still, it didn't cease to sound strange, paining her ears and creating a peculiar ache somewhere deep inside her soul.

Surprised she hadn't heard the intruder into the library, she turned and saw an unknown man staying in the threshold.

"There is a Northerner who'd like to speak to you, my lady," he said in one breath.

Sansa's heart skipped a beat. A Northerner! Coming to speak to her! There came her first chance.

But... would she be allowed to speak with the man? Did Roose know about it? Will the man survive such a demand, a venture into the enemy's den?

There was only one way to find out.

"Where is he?" she asked, standing up.

"At the Great Hall, expecting your council."

The man in question had to be either really courageous or tremendously foolish; she hoped for the former. In her mind, she already saw the rows of Northern lords asking for her advice while Roose could only stand in the corner and grind his teeth in silent desperation. Though he probably wasn't the type to do that. He wouldn't be able to flay the whole North alive unless he wanted to be the last Northerner in the Seven Kingdoms.

Heading to the Great Hall, she realized she didn't have a lot of counsel to give. Yes, she truly believed she was a quick learner, but she still knew so little. This first contact was the most important: the words of a Northerner who stepped into the Boltons' den demanding to speak with Sansa Stark will surely spread across the whole North. It was probably just as important for her future as it was for Roose's what becomes of that tale. Will it be a song of a man who risked it all to lose it all? Or the story of the one who came back home well counseled to tell everyone the Stark heir was alive and well, back at home, helping people in need?

The second option was probably beneficial for both of them. Wasn't it what Roose wanted while getting her here? The loyalty of the Northerners, unbidden...

But he wasn't going to let her speak with the man alone, was he? Her constant companions didn't seem bright enough to stop her from saying anything unbeneficial. Or maybe it was a test, to check if she would betray him so quickly?

Either way, she needed to know this right now; speeding up her pace, she reached the Great Hall in no time. The soldiers opened the door for her and she stepped inside, agitated and excited at the unfolding of the events at the same time.

She felt a sting of disappointment at the sight upon her eyes - there was a peasant. A farmer, probably. A man late in life, bowing from fear in the middle of the chamber.

What else did she expect? Who could be the first brave man to seek for her if not some elderly smallfolk with nothing to lose? She felt foolish, angered at herself for deluding herself a lord might come, maybe even someone she had met back in the good old days.

But the good lords were gone, and everyone she had known was dead.

"My lady." She looked up from the terrified old man and locked eyes with Roose. He was sitting at the high table, on the Lord of Winterfell's seat. Which was, of course, logical, as it was his function now, Sansa reminded herself, ignoring the wave of anger and hatred that threatened to flood her and take charge.

So, not only did he know about the demand for her person but also was the one who had sent for her. His conclusions might have been similar to the ones she had drawn on her way here: it would be beneficial for him if the words of her well-being and even some sort of independence spread around. On the other hand, he could use this opportunity to show her that she, in fact, had no power, and put the poor man's flayed corpse on display for her to see.

She didn't have him figured out enough to even make a wild bet at which one of those possibilities was more probable.

"Come." He stood up and gestured at the chair. She put on a restrained smile and headed towards him, unease growing inside her. What was he planning to do?

A million thoughts rushed through her mind as she approached the chair and sat down. She expected him to stay by her side or say something like "betray me and you'll see" or rather "I trust you know what will happen if you ever betray me," but nothing like that occurred.

"I'll leave you to it."

And then he turned around and walked away while she stared wide-eyedly at his back. He left her basically alone, only with her guards staying at the door. Why? Wasn't it unusual? Surely he didn't trust her, then why...

Did he think the words were unnecessary because she knew better than to do something reckless? The soldiers were here and the walls everywhere had ears. Maybe he trusted she was intelligent enough to know what was the best course of action for both her and the Northerners?

And maybe she was just reading way too much into it? They had established she would be in charge of talking with the Northerners, hadn't they? Even though they had both expected none to come. Maybe it was as simple as that.

Like anything in this wretched world of lies could ever be simple.

She forced herself to abandon thoughts of "why's" and "maybe's", and focused her attention on her subject.

"You may approach." She smiled kindly at the man and he limped towards her.

"M-m'lady," he stuttered, his face hardened by years of hard labor, but his eyes were gentle and his smile genuine. It made Sansa's heart warmer. "We-we've heard of your return... We dared not believe..."

"I'm here. You may believe now." If there were a lot of people like that in the North her situation was better than she had expected. On the more realistic side, even an army of faithful farmers was nothing compared to actual trained soldiers, even barely a few, not to mention an army Roose had at his disposal.

"I do, I do!" The man beamed, his transparent yellowish skin stretching over his cheekbones. "M'lady, I..." He gazed around at the soldiers, who didn't make it known they had seen it.

"Don't fret. You may speak freely." Sansa wondered about her own words after they had left her mouth. He shouldn't speak freely, but for her case, those were the only proper words to say. If he had any brains or self-preservation sense, he would know.

Though... what kind of self-preservation was to be expected of a man who, out of his own free will, went seeking help to the Boltons?

The farmer nodded frantically, then approached the table some more. Sansa noticed the soldiers moving as well, maybe so they would hear any whisper that might be uttered.

"We're starvin', m'lady." The words rang true from the sheer look of his fragile frame, protruding bones, and hollow eyes. "In the war, the lords lost many people... and a lot of us were taken to work in them keeps. Me whole family was taken to different places in the North... On other farms, there are only elders and children left... We ain't good for our fields. And for our lords, 'cause our fields ain't touched. We're starvin' now, but come Winter, you're all starve with us..."

Though the words sounded like a threat, Sansa knew they weren't meant that way. They were meant as the truth because they were the truth. She felt a cold chill running down her spine. She remembered some of the numbers she had seen in the ledgers, shrinking through the years. A few years back, amidst summer, Winterfell alone could have fed the whole North through the harshest of winters with its stock. Now, though... Now, come Winter, they will all starve.

"We... we thought we'd starve before anyone comes here askin'..." The man shuddered at some thought and Sansa didn't have to be a seer to know what it concerned. "But we heard about a Stark back home and thought we got nothin' to lose, we can as well try... Your father, m'lady, was always so kind..."

Yes, she didn't doubt her father's kindness. His kindness and his honor had led him to an early grave. Robb's good heart also led him into the blade. Her husband's blade.

Tossing her anger at kindness in general aside and remembering she was supposed to win the hearts of her people with a gentle smile and benevolence, she straightened up and looked at the man comfortingly.

"I appreciate your coming here and trusting me with your issues, with issues of the whole North. I assure you your concerns were heard and understood, and I will do everything within my power so we could all survive the Winter." Her voice was firm and confident, of the true Lady of Winterfell, feeling her power. "I'll try to find some spare people to help you and your crops."

"It ain't only..." he started, but she cut him short.

"You and the other farmers."

The man beamed again.

"Thank you, m'lady. May the old gods bless you and your kind soul."

She smiled all the way while he backed to the door and out of the Great Hall, thinking it was rather bold of her to promise him a solution to his problems while not being certain he would even leave Winterfell with his skin still attached to his body.

If he would come back to his farm intact, what then? She gave him a promise she wasn't sure she could keep. Lady of Winterfell or not, those were not her people to order around, although they should be. She should have that power as the lady of the castle. And she sure as all seven hells should be able to keep the promises she was making to her subjects.

But she was in such a situation she had to report it to Roose and see what he will decide to do. The helplessness made her furious, but there was nothing she could do to change that. Not yet, at least.

And there were three possible scenarios. First, he would accept the request and she would feel confident enough to discuss the dire situation of the North with him and ask if she could dispose of his people like they were truly _theirs_ , not only _his_. Gaining the Northmen trust, it would benefit them both, her plan especially. Second, he would decline everything but let the man be. The farmer than would spread the rumor of the promises Sansa Stark had made and didn't bother to keep, which would severely harm her good name, in the long run destroying any trust the Northerners might still harbor towards the Starks. In desperation, they might turn to anyone else from the sheer will to survive, no matter the consequences. Hungry men will do whatever it took to stay alive and feed their families. Beneficial for Roose, keeping the Northerners in his firm grasp and destroying Stark loyalty. The third option, kill the man. Words would spread of the one who ventured to the flayed man's den to seek for Sansa Stark and met his end there. Growing distrust towards the Boltons, raising suspicions the only remaining Stark was kept as a prisoner in her own home - in some twisted way, beneficial for her.

She opted for the first option nonetheless.

The day was still young, so she chose to find the answer immediately and ventured to Lord of Winterfell's quarters to find Roose. Unfortunately, he wasn't there and she had to retreat to the seclusion of the library. She couldn't focus on anything for the remainder of the day, the numbers and plans of the castle staring at her blankly from the papers. The sun was barely fading when she decided to come back to her chamber, taking one of the ledgers with her. Just in case she would have to discuss it later that day.

Sometime later, as the night almost completely devoured the winter sun, it turned out she wasn't wrong to suspect a visitor.

The second night of her married life, when her heart had skipped a lot of its beats after her handmaiden knocked on the door, she had instructed the woman not to knock any more, but slightly open the door and wait for an invitation. So Sansa's heart would get some rest without racing every single time she heard that sound.

The sound came that night; she was occupied enough with the matter of the day and with the need to actually exchange a few important words with her husband that she didn't dread the night entirely.

"Yes?" She turned around towards the door, waiting. Anticipating.

Of course it was him; who else would visit her chamber at such a late hour? Besides... from a certain point of view, she suspected it was the high time. He had given her a whole sennight to recover, much more than she had expected.

"I looked for you today, my lord," she started even before he managed to close the door behind him.

"What for, my lady?" Would it truly kill him to feign at least a little interest?

"I wanted to discuss the meeting with the peasant," she answered and turned to her records because it was easier to speak to them than watch him shed his furs. "It was barely a farmer, but he said some really important and disturbing things." She heard him moving closer to the chair she was occupying. "We really should look at the records and all the numbers, because they are rather worrying, and also taking into consideration what the man said today..."

He stopped her musings suddenly while she just got in her element by reaching beside her and closing her book with a silent thump. She went quiet, feeling his looming presence over her as he stood right behind her chair.

He didn't say a thing until she looked up at him, her face as devoid of any expression as she could only make it so.

"I haven't come here to discuss peasants and their hardships." His eyes continued silently _for which I could not care less._

She felt her cheeks flushing as her breathing hitched.

"Yes, I know." She probably should lower her eyes to the floor in humble submission, as a polite, well-mannered lady ought to do whilst talking - or even thinking - about unholy matters, matters of the body and its desires. And so she withstood his gaze bravely, even though her face was burning and her insides clenched in fear and anticipation.

"We will discuss business on the morrow. Now is the time for pleasure."

_It still means business,_ she almost caught herself saying, but stopped the words just in time. Instead, she nodded her head, stood up, undressed silently without looking at him, and lay down, waiting. Her body seemed ready, and though she couldn't get rid of the tight knot in her stomach, she couldn't also deny there was some tense anticipation between her legs, wishing to be resolved.

And, somehow, without fear of getting brutally vandalized, she was even curious how much attention he will give to her pleasure. Maybe the beginning of their wedding night had only been a one-time thing and from now on it will only be about his quick release inside her.

The very first gasp that escaped her lips made her certain it hadn't been a one-time thing. The work those unnamed fingers and lips were performing had to be some kind of magic because it definitely wasn't natural, it definitely wasn't a normal practice. She had no idea what they were doing to her, but she was completely under the spell, losing herself in all the right - no, _wrong_ \- sensations.

When he eventually entered her the pain reignited for a tiny moment, but just as quickly went away, leaving the uncomfortableness of being stretched in its wake, which also dissipated in a few fleeting seconds - or minutes, she didn't know. And then the fire was the only thing that remained.

The further she was from any pain, the more frustrated with this other kind of burning she became, wishing it to be resolved, but it grew and grew, and she could only surrender to this all-consuming wave that didn't want to fully erupt. She didn't have much control over her body - her hips met his movements, her legs change their angles so she would feel more, her throat uttered all kinds of incoherent sounds. She wasn't actually able to take control of any part of it, the fire within her devouring her whole attention.

Like during the wedding night, she wasn't meant to reach the sweet explosion for the second time before he finished inside her. Unlike during the wedding night, he didn't leave her unfulfilled and quite literary lend her a hand.

And the waves crashed and crashed, the shores breaking with the sheer force.

"My lady."

He left her ashamed with herself for forgetting everything whenever this dreadful, unladylike but so pleasurable fire was raging inside her. Why did her body comply with everything he was doing to it? Why couldn't it remain a stone, silent and unmovable?

Once she remembered that the bed was actually to become an integral part of her plans, the shame subsided a little. Silent and unmovable would never work their way into a man's head; responsive and creative might.

Putting out the lights she thought, with a little smirk of satisfaction, that at least there was one thing she didn't have to be ashamed about.

Like during the wedding night, she hadn't looked at him a single time during the act.


	5. Warden of the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaay, I've managed to publish it sooner this time (or at least I think so...)! Some more politics awaits here, I hope it seems logical.
> 
> Enjoy and let me know your thoughts!

The study that had once belonged to her father hadn’t changed much. It wore scars from the fire, but they were barely noticeable, and if someone didn’t know any better, they might not be able to tell the difference.

Sansa did know better.

It had been years since she had last seen this chamber. Looking around, it somehow felt like she had never even been here; it must have been some other Sansa Stark, some other her. Not this one, staying in the middle of it on the morrow after her private meeting with her husband. Not anyone’s wife, not the Lady of Winterfell.

A lot of times, especially at the very beginning of her new life in Winterfell, she had been experiencing some vivid recurrences of that other life, forgotten by the gods and fate alike. Summer sun shining upon their stony keep, illuminating their carefree childhood years. The children running around, laughing, playing, taunting each other. Robb, pretending to be the responsible Lord of Winterfell he had been always supposed to become. Jon brooding in the background. Theon trying to prove to himself he was their equal. Arya, always doing something forbidden and unladylike. Rickon and Bran, too young to comprehend. Lady, her beautiful fur glistening in the warm rays. Her beautiful Lady.

Such vivid memories had ceased to appear when the walls turned out to feel nothing like home. Broken, bent, flayed. They had changed too much to fit that perfect picture in Sansa’s head, the one she had done her best to escape from. And so the images had faded, leaving her alone. This place, however... This place was just as she remembered it. Well, almost, the fire scars only partially to blame for that sensation. She could see her father sitting at the desk, smiling at his children who shouldn’t have interfered with his work, but somehow always had. Her mother stood next to the desk, scolding them firmly for the intrusion. Maester Luwin hushed them out of the room with a gentle smile. She could still hear the sounds, feel the colorful atmosphere of that time she so fondly recalled. But the image went away, and she was facing the gray gloom that was her new reality once again. There was no family with her, no familiar face. Because the man currently occupying this chamber was everything but her family, even though they had been legally bound to each other in the presence of the old gods until one of them would meet their demise.

Waking up from her reveries, she looked up at him, sitting at the desk, watching her. The dissonance between the memories and her current situation took her breath away for a moment, but she somehow managed to recover and come back to her senses.

Roose gestured to the chair opposite from him, and she quickly took the offered position. She shouldn’t have let herself drift away like that, not in his presence at least.

He poured her some wine and looked at her in silence. She gazed at his empty cup rather suspiciously, remembering suddenly that she had been going to enquire about his drinking habits - or rather lack thereof - during their wedding feast.

“Don’t you drink, my lord?” She took a sip from her cup, a peculiar realization hitting her. In any other circumstances, whoever else would fill her cup while leaving theirs empty, she would suspect poison. But here, in the presence of her brother’s murderer, she knew she was safe and that he would do nothing to endanger her life. Not now, at least.

The irony, wasn’t it? 

“No.”

“Why is that?”

“I find it rather foolish that everyone always asks how it is that I do not drink, while they should look upon some of their dead kings and ask themselves why they are still drinking,” he answered casually without truly answering.

Sansa put down her goblet with a quiet thump.

“Actually, I do think the same. I don’t understand why men find it so... liberating. If they didn’t have courage before they got drunk, the wine or ale won’t change who they truly are. At the end of the day, they would still be cowards.”

Something like a brief spark of interest flashed in his eyes only to disappear as quickly as it appeared.

“You didn’t look like it during the wedding,” he noticed. Sansa flushed slightly; so, all in all, she had been visibly drunk then.

“I drank because I was afraid,” she answered honestly, her head held high as she didn’t avert her gaze from his eyes even for a single second. “I’m no longer afraid.” She pushed the cup farther away from her to accentuate the meaning of her words.

“Good.” His gaze shifted from the cup back to her eyes and for a moment she wondered at the complexity of the games they were both playing as she fought not to be devoured by that pale abyss of his irises. “You wanted to discuss the peasant’s business.”

“Yes.” She nodded vehemently. Time for important matters just came.

She opened the ledger she had brought with her and started recounting her yesterday’s meeting with the farmer, plus all the insights she had already made about the supply situation. He listened without interrupting, letting her finish. She made sure to highlight the dire state of provisions they had now; what would befall if it came to another war or Winter, eventually? Both options were certain, and they will probably occur at the same time, not giving them any time to prepare or regain their strength before hitting them once more with despair, starvation, and death.

“We need to send the men to help the farmers,” she ended decisively. “And with the money we have, we should establish some sort of trade at once, and buy some stock. And maybe secure some men as well, because I don’t think we have that many. It won't sustain us for long, but at least it will be a good start. Also, we could think about relocating some farmers, as the one from yesterday suggested. I don’t think there is a need for so many people within the castles, Winterfell included.”

“A lot are currently rebuilding it,” he noticed. “So we wouldn’t freeze to death before we starve. And they are builders, not farmers.”

“Yes, I know. I haven’t yet thought about the repairs in detail, but maybe they could focus on one part at a time; that would involve fewer people, and should still be finished in time before the Winter fully hits us. And they could always change their professions if the situation demanded it. How hard can it be to grow some crops?”

“I’m not a farmer, but I don’t think you can talk the crops into growing.” She narrowed her eyes at the mockery.

“With the right amount of determination everyone is capable of doing everything if needed be,” she said calmly, her voice firm. She knew something about it herself. 

He didn’t answer, staring at her. She shifted uneasily under that piercing gaze of his.

“You said you didn’t know much about running a keep,” he finally said, confronting her with her own words, believing them to be a lie. 

“Because I didn’t. But I also said I’m a quick learner.” Petyr would probably disagree, but Roose didn’t have to know that. “There is still a lot I don’t know, but I am learning.”

He watched her for a moment in silence, then finally shared his insight.

“You’re right, we don’t have enough men just as we don’t have enough food or money. The lords prefer to rebel or hide in their keeps in stubborn defiance rather than surrender to my rule, leaving the supplies even scarcer without cooperation, further destroying the North. Wars cost money, men, and food. They won’t agree peacefully to any relocations, and I don’t think you’d like to see the consequences of their… lack of abidance.”

So that was how he was going to play? By painting himself as a savior of the North and everyone who rebelled against him as a villain?

“Not to you,” she shrugged nonchalantly. That was how _she_ was going to play. She felt like she was treading on a thin line over some vast, devouring abyss; she could find the reflection of it in his eyes.

He tilted his head, unmoved but slightly interested.

“I assume you already have a solution.” 

“I do.” She stood up and started walking around the chamber, accentuating her words with gestures of her hands. “You cannot hold the North with terror alone.” She had heard people whispering about flayed bodies hanging from the walls after Ramsay had tried to collect taxes from some lord who hadn’t wanted to comply. That was terror in its purest form. “They need to see you truly care for the survival of every Northerner, not just your house.” Like he cared about anything at all apart from himself. “They need to feel someone does anything to protect them from the Winter and other dangers, which is, may I remind you, what the Warden of the North should be doing.”

She stopped and looked at him - he was casually observing her, listening, giving her space to continue. It wasn’t an easy thing to do; coming here she had wanted to discuss the matters at hand, and the promises she had made to the farmer without suspecting she would immerse in “the big picture” issues so quickly. The topic had come out on its own and she had no choice but to push it further, hoping it wasn’t too soon for such a conversation. The earlier she would do it, the greater the benefits for the North might be. Or the consequences.

“They need to feel protected and the only things they feel right now are fear and hatred. So they rebel, while they - _we_ \- all should see what is really the most important here.”

“Which is?” he inquired neutrally.

“The survival of our country in the face of Winter.” She made a mental note to herself to ask him about that "unknown threat” Jon had mentioned, some other time.

“So many gallant words, lady Sansa, and I am only a simple Northman.” He crossed his fingers together and tapped them lightly. They both knew he was everything but a simple Northman. “What is it that you want exactly?”

He wanted her to make a mistake now and say something foolishly dangerous, didn’t he? She needed to tread carefully, or else the line will break and she will fall into the abyss alongside the whole North.

“Give the farmer what I promised him." She decided to be straightforward. "Send the ravens to the lords informing them of the general situation, asking for their assistance, and showing goodwill. If they refuse, which they most probably will, don’t punish them with Ramsay, or flaying, or both, but let me talk to them first. They will listen to me. Of course, you would go with me, so they would see it’s your goodwill as well, not only mine. I’m certain they’ll come around eventually. Also, if there are more people seeking help and we will see to their needs it will send an additional positive message throughout the North.”

She finished and looked at him impatiently, biting her lip in a sign of nervousness. She was nervous for real this time. Didn’t she overstep it? Wasn’t it too soon? Too bold? Maybe she should have waited a moon at the very least.

But how many people could starve in a moon?

Roose looked rather... amused. If such a word could even be applied to someone who showed almost no emotions whatsoever.

“I am the Warden of the North,” he started, standing up. “You don't have to remind me what this position entails. Since your careful plans fall within those requirements, I see no reason against granting your wishes.” He walked up closer to her, his gaze piercing through her, surely seeing all of her true intentions.

But it didn’t matter at the moment - he actually agreed, which also probably meant the farmer had come back home in one piece. It was a pleasant surprise.

“Th-thank you,” she purposefully stuttered and smiled graciously. Looking up she met his gaze and forced herself to withstand it. She would give up a lot of things for just a glimpse at how the mind behind those pale irises worked. What was he thinking about? How and why? Those were the questions she will probably never find answers to.

“Is there anything else?” The time for discussion was apparently over. “I got some planning to do regarding your precious rebelling lords. And as you mentioned, you still have so much to learn.”

The phrase, which sounded natural and neutral when she had said it, now seemed like an insult. And her _precious_ _rebelling_ _lords_? Was he mocking her and her apparent naivety? She shuddered inside, fighting the growing anger.

“No.” _Keep calm, just keep calm_. “I’ll leave you to it.” A smile, a small bow and she was out of the study, feeling his eyes on her back until she disappeared from his view.

In the library, she still couldn’t vent, but she let the anger boil in her veins. She could only pretend to be reading as there was a storm raging inside her. Yes, she probably got what she wanted - if he kept his words, of course - but those parting sentences made her feel like a fool. She had enough of men laughing at her innocence and pure heart, at her naive ways of looking at the world, her childish dreams stepped on. She was no longer that girl. She was a mature woman who had already seen too much, suffered, and bled. And she was done with men looking at her like she was a little bird.

She was a wolf. And they will hear her howl.

 _He_ will hear. The North remembered and always will.

Fuming, she tried to find some solace in the numbers, but she couldn’t focus for all the gods’ sakes. Fiddling with the pages of the nearest book, she let her thoughts wander.

What was the point of today's farce? It wasn't like he didn't know better. He did, and most probably none of her words were new to his ears. Yet, he gave her that illusion of power, letting her believe she could make a difference. Maybe, in a way, it was crueler than she had thought. Maybe he was just toying with her because it didn’t hurt his cause and could flatter her ego. Maybe, in the end, it didn’t even matter.

She had never understood Arya’s interest in fights, weapons, duels. Even now, she still was going to resort to her feminine powers. But, in the end, it will be a weapon that kills him. In her mind, she saw the blade piercing through his skin, the blood springing and running down from his flesh through her fingers as she smiled a cold, satisfied smile while staring into his dying eyes. He would be surprised, having never seen it coming. And she would win.

_You’ll pay for everything, Roose. Give it some time, but you’ll pay._

Everyone paid, in the end.

As the days passed peacefully with no remarkable events Sansa slowly found her feet in all of it. She decided that even if her actions wouldn't make any difference in the end, she will still be doing them, in case they actually would. Managing to read more and more, she ultimately found her ways to the Maester and his knowledge, and he helped her understand things that had seemed beyond her comprehension. She saw to it that the men were sent to a few peasants' farms, as well as the ravens to the lords’ and landed knights’ households. There were other common people to listen to, but their needs weren’t as dire, and she could help them easily without bothering her mind too much. She also managed to plan the whole repairs of the castle, step by step, releasing some builders of their duty and urging them to busy themselves with other professions.

With Wolkan's assistance, Sansa personally checked the state of supplies and money they had at their disposal. Upon discovering they weren't as poor as she had initially thought, a lot of coins not accounted in the ledgers, she diligently planned a trade they could afford. Coming to the conclusion the Seven Kingdoms were too much in war to engage in such activities, Sansa decided on Essos, with the goods going through White Harbor. She only needed Lord Manderly's cooperation for that, and thus had to wait for his answer. 

During her work, she was never alone, but it didn’t bother her. She could make a positive impression on the people around her even with the guards following her close behind, be it builders, farmers, or the soldiers themselves. Days alone, she was a perfect Lady of Winterfell, Wardeness of the North, even. Every second night, she was a wife. As the hatred towards her husband grew with each passing day, even though they barely saw each other, their encounters became increasingly harder to bear. Not that her body didn’t enjoy them; on the contrary, it betrayed her every single time. Her mind, however, was closed.

After the ravens had been sent, Ramsay came back to joining them at breakfast. Sansa could tell he was anxious to do something, anything but sitting idly in Winterfell, but that seemed to be his orders for the time being, as she had indirectly requested. He was behaving extremely civil, and she found herself wondering what could happen if she would charm him enough to betray everything for her. It wouldn't be easy; still, he was madly alive, and therefore responsive, in stark contrast to her husband, who was made of apathetic stone, as immovable as it was only possible. It seemed impossible to charm Roose, even if she tried hard, which she couldn't force herself to do for the time being.

The ways her days went weren’t bad, but they were stale. Yes, she was a perfect Lady of Winterfell, helping the North and its people, but getting no closer to enacting any part of her revenge. She needed to open her mind more, and her body as well. Currently, though, the idea made her disgusted. Something needed to change. To win the game, she had to truly let them in.

 _Trust_. A keyword of her plan. Weeks had passed and she was still at the same starting point. Or so it seemed.

One breakfast when irritated Ramsay left them to do something “terribly important” - which probably meant feeding someone to his hounds - she decided to confront Roose a little.

“Do you truly believe I must be constantly followed by your soldiers?” she asked casually. “It’s not like I’ll try to escape. This is my home. These are my people. And you are my husband.”

“Oh, I don’t believe you’d ever try to escape,” he answered just as casually. She was certain the next part would be something on the lines of them helping her with her duties, but he surprised her once more. “The guards are there for your protection.”

“My protection? Who would like to hurt me here? Everyone in the North respects me.” She knew the words weren’t true, even though she hoped they could be. Setting the North aside, did he suspect some Southern invasion or Cersei's retaliation? 

He looked at her briefly, assessing.

“Not everyone, and certainly not in a way you'd want them to.”

Sansa realized he meant someone, one specific person. It made her feel rather uneasy.

“From whom do I need to be protected?” she pressed on, determined to get a clear answer.

He didn’t reply, but his gaze lingered a little bit too long on the girl squirming near the door of the chamber. Sansa frowned. Her name was Myranda, from what she recalled. She was one of Ramsay’s playmates, or maybe playthings; Sansa didn’t know which one exactly, nor did she care.

_Ramsay._

So she hadn't been wrong in her initial feelings concerning the bastard. Or was it just a ruse to keep her from getting closer to the younger Bolton, her possible ally, or the pawn in her game? 

She made sure to look incredulously at Roose, who came back to his breakfast like they had just been discussing a color of a winter sky. No matter how dangerous it could prove to be, she took it on herself to discover what was really going on with Ramsay Bolton.

She had a feeling she will find it out sooner rather than later.


	6. These Monsters Are Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger warning:** attempted rape/non-con. If you don't feel comfortable reading such things, you should probably skip this chapter. 
> 
> The title of the chapter was inspired by Shinedown's song "Monsters".  
> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!

As it turned out she hadn’t been mistaken - the opportunity came pretty quickly. A few days later Roose announced to them both that he was going away for a while to deal with some Northern issues, assuring Sansa it had nothing to do with the ravens they had sent and to which she still hadn’t received a single answer. He asked them to keep Winterfell in the same state it currently was in - or make it better - looking directly at Ramsay and bade his farewells. They both watched him go and later went to do their respective duties. Sansa planned to converse with Ramsay on the morrow, so the haste wouldn’t raise any suspicions.

He, however, had other plans.

She was in the library, analyzing the latest progress the builders had made, thinking if she should add some personal touch to it when she heard footsteps approaching. Predicting it was most probably Ramsay, she faced the door and put on a mask crafted especially for him - not the restrained, mature smile she wore for Roose, but an expression of authority mixed with polite, yet superior interest and a little bit of young fire that constantly flew in her veins.

“Lady Bolton.” He bowed before her, looking around the library with a peculiar smirk wandering on his lips.

“Ramsay.” She couldn’t help the chill running down her spine as he smiled at her in this disturbing way of his.

“Leave me and lady Bolton alone,” he said, looking at her guards stationed at the door. Anxiety started growing inside her. Yes, she wanted to talk to him alone, but somehow the way he said it made her feel uneasy.

But she wanted proof of his real intentions, and of how she could use him to her advantage. Also, she had to make sure she truly needed protection against him, as Roose had suggested. She will face him bravely, whatever he intended. Though, he shouldn’t plan on hurting her unless he wanted to face his father’s rage, should he?

She really hoped he shouldn’t.

“We’ve got instructions not to leave lady Bolton alone with anyone,” one of the soldiers quickly said. Ramsay hummed in response, then moved dangerously close to the man.

“Who am I to you?” he asked, his voice low.

“My... lord.” The man was afraid, that much she could see. Suddenly, she felt like her safety resided in those guards of hers, and would drift away the moment they part from her.

“And what do you do when your lord commands you to do his bidding?” Ramsay’s face was barely inches from the other man’s, his fingers tapping against the soldier’s chest.

“I obey.”

“So what are you still doing here?” Ramsay spun around with his arms spread, grinning like he just said a lovely joke. The threatened soldier gestured to the other one, and they left the chamber. He hadn’t even truly threatened them, yet they - two adult men much bigger than him, trained soldiers at that - were terrified with the sheer force of his reputation and what might follow. That made him more dangerous than Joffrey had ever been. He didn’t have to say things like _“I’ll hang you for that”_ or _“I’ll have your head on a spike”_ to invoke terror.

That was a thing the Boltons had in common; whereas Roose evoked a profound horror, people knowing exactly what he was capable of, Ramsay elicited something more resembling panic, no one ever able to predict his actions.

“Alone at last.” Ramsay turned to her again and she felt her heart speed up. A voice in her head told her it was a bad idea, urging her to get out of there; but she needed to see it to the end, to make sure.

“Actually, I wanted to get to know you better,” she said, her voice calm and balanced. “We are a family now.”

“Of course we are!” He beamed and practically threw himself onto a chair next to her. “I also wanted to get to know you,” he said serenely, taking her hands into his and staring her right in the eyes. She had always felt uneasy under the observant gaze of his father, but this... this was uncomfortable on a completely different level. The blueness of Ramsay’s eyes burnt with madness, madness so cruel she dreaded to see more of it.

She silenced the voice now screaming in her head, deriving from the deepest stores of bravery she had left.

“How do you like it here in Winterfell?” she asked him, pretending to be curious, pretending she was all right with him holding her hands, even though she most certainly was not. His grip was strong, her body rejecting it with all its might.

“It’s rather... refreshing.” He looked suggestively at the hole in the roof. A morbid flame appeared in his eyes as he gazed back at her, smiling widely. “It didn’t look so well before I was done with it.”

The smile was gone from his face as he continued, his eyes glistening.

“I enjoy breaking things, you know? Like I broke your pretty little house, or your petty little friend, Theon. They are both so much better now.”

His grasp at her hands tightened; she felt her breath speeding but did her best not to show it. She hadn’t been afraid of Joffrey, she won’t be a coward in front of Ramsay.

But maybe the reason she hadn’t been afraid of Joffrey was that she hadn’t cared in King’s Landing, not for her life, not for anything. Now, she had a plan, a reason to live. She wanted to live to see them all dead.

“It hurts, Ramsay,” she said calmly, trying to break free from his grasp. Her body was afraid of him, of what he might do to her, but her mind was trying to remain unbothered. She had seen enough monsters to feel some kind of indifference right now, hadn’t she?

“Oh, I know.” He smiled at her, squeezing her fingers even tighter. She didn’t know what his plan was, but instinctively started wondering - if she screamed, would her guards come and help her? Or would they just watch how he defiled her, unmoved? Would they let him kill her if he chose to do so? “It’s better when it hurts. Pain is good. Makes one a man. Or... a woman, in your case.”

Why would he want to hurt her, though? She was their key to the North, she was... Suddenly, the threat she posed to Ramsay shot through her like a lightning.

He was a bastard, and even though he had been legitimized it didn't change much except his name and status as the nobility. If she was ever to give his father a son... Then farewell Winterfell, farewell the titles, farewell the power.

She was an ultimate threat to him. Or rather... her womb was.

Her insides clenched at the implications of that. Even though the only pain she could feel at the moment was coming from the iron grip on her fingers, she already sensed it deep inside her at the sheer thought of what he truly might want to do to her.

No. No, no, no. It won’t end like this. She had survived so much without being ultimately violated, still alive, still strong; she won’t let it happen now, in her own home.

But what could she do to prevent it from happening?

She stared back at him, determined to come out of it intact at all costs.

“Let go of me this very instant,” she hissed at him. He smiled viciously but loosened his grip enough for her to release herself. She stood up abruptly, rubbing her numb hands, and immediately turned to the door, only to discover two people standing in the doorway.

Myranda, with a wandering smirk on her lips, and Theon, shrunk in submission, standing right behind her.

Sansa’s heart stopped at the cruelty she saw in the young woman’s face.

“You don’t know Myranda, do you?” Ramsay stood up as well and walked over to the other woman, who leaned into him with a tempting smile. “She is my... associate.” As a proof, Myranda pulled him closer and sealed his lips with a possessive kiss. Sansa watched them, her mind racing, trying to come up with a possible solution to escape this situation. The only way out was through the door; it was too high to jump through the window, not to mention the hole in the roof. If Theon chose to remain Reek, she would be outnumbered, and without much chance of success. “See, we got slightly bored and thought you could... entertain us a little,” Ramsay continued when they finally parted.

Sansa glared at him in denial.

“I will not entertain you. Now get out of my way.” She moved towards them, wishing to somehow push through. Ramsay gestured at Theon and he shifted, blocking the exit. “Move,” she demanded, her voice cold.

Theon shook his head.

“Do what he says,” he muttered, his eyes fastened on the floor. “If you comply, you won’t be hurt that much.”

“Theon...” The shock that rippled through her glued her to the floor. Was there an end to his betrayal of her family? Had he fallen so low?

He shook his head once again, this time more fervently, still refusing to meet her eyes.

“Not Theon. Reek.”

Yes, that was undoubtedly what he had truly become. Ramsay had broken him, and nothing else was left. He was Reek, and he will forever remain only that.

“You’re disgusting,” she uttered with such hatred he shuddered, shrinking into himself some more.

“Yes, Reek is disgusting indeed.” Ramsay interfered, and she was forced to face him, some sort of resignation embracing her. What could she do now? It seemed like there was no way to walk out of here intact. “Let’s not bother your pretty head with him.”

“You think she’s pretty?” Myranda looked at Ramsay with indignation, and he smirked, appraising both of them.

“I’m not blind. After a fat one father got himself quite a nice bride.”

A single thought of her predecessor flashed through Sansa’s head but quickly vanished as they both looked at her in a predatory way.

“Well, then maybe I should break her a little,” Myranda sneered, scrutinizing Sansa’s frame.

“You are deranged.” Sansa shook her head in disbelief, slowly backing towards the wall. She was trapped and she was all too aware of that.

“We might very well be.” Ramsay nodded thoughtfully. “Or maybe we are the only sane ones in this deranged world.”

She would laugh at the absurdity of that statement if her throat wasn’t so squeezed.

“We suspected you may oppose us.” Myranda smiled at her, and it was the same type of cruel, sadistic smile Ramsay possessed. They both took a step in her direction.

“But, we thought, there’s always a solution!” The bastard’s eyes lit up and he clapped his hands in glee. “We’re going to play a game, and this little game of ours must have some rules. What’d you say about something like...” he pretended to be thinking hard, tapping his index finger on his mouth. Then he beamed like the answer struck him all of a sudden. “For every time you say “no”, an innocent Northman will die? Do you like it?”

“You wouldn’t dare...” she started, anger boiling in her veins.

“Why?” Ramsay looked around nonchalantly, proving there was no one to stop him, and shrugged with an almost innocent expression.

Simple question, almost brutal in its simplicity.

“Your father...” What was she even trying to say? Like his father cared for innocent Northmen. Or her, for that matter.

“My father isn’t here.” His tone changed to menacing as his eyes burned. “And I think we can keep it a little secret from him, between the four of us. For the Northmen’s safety,” he ended in a confidential whisper.

She could fight them. She could resist. But here no one would hear her screams, and the Northmen would die - she didn’t delude herself into thinking it was an idle threat. No, Ramsay meant every word he had just said.

“Speaking of my father...” He took another step in her direction, and Sansa felt the skeleton shelves at her back. It was the limit of how far she could go. Behind Ramsay, Myranda gestured at Reek and he stepped deeper inside the library, closing the door behind him. Sansa’s heart seemed to do both - cease to beat and race furiously, if such a thing could be even possible. “I thought we could make you more... proper for him.”

“What are you talking about?” she glared at him as he moved closer and closer, and she could not walk away.

He came to a stop right in front of her; his fingers reached towards her cheek, but before he could touch her she pushed his hand away and slapped him with all her strength and hatred.

He hummed, his tongue brushing over his upper lip where the hit came. Before she could think about reacting, he grabbed her by the wrists, spun her around and pinned her against the shelves, pushing himself onto her. Her breathing became shallow as the pain spread through her body: the shelves dug into her flesh, the grasp on her wrists was iron, and her arms were twisted backward. What was the worst, though, was the hardness she could feel against her bottom. Gasping, she tried to set herself free, but he only tightened his grip.

“I like the struggling ones,” he hissed into her ear, his breath against her skin making her shiver in disgust. “Keeps things interesting.”

She yelped as he yanked her by her hair and bit her neck like some feral animal he in fact was.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Myranda approaching: the girl paused next to them, leaning against the shelves, a shining blade in her hand.

“Do you like children, Myranda?” Ramsay asked and let go of Sansa's hair, his hand sliding down her body instead. The edges of the shelves had to already make a deep impression on her skin; she tried to wriggle away, tried to do anything to free herself, but to no avail. He was too strong, and she was outnumbered and defenseless.

“No, my lord.” The woman stepped forward and started playing with Sansa’s hair, rubbing the strands between her fingers with something resembling awe. “They are loud. They make women fat and emotional. You can’t sleep at night because of them. Only problems.”

“That’s right! You see, _mother_ , Myranda drinks moon tea to get rid of this... infliction.” Ramsay’s hand slipped below her gown and started its journey up her thigh. Images flashed through Sansa’s head, of the little Stark girl publicly humiliated, kneeling on the floor of the Throne Room, or of her clothes getting ripped from her body while the masses rebelled all around her. There was no Sandor Clegane in sight to save her this time, wasn’t there? “But it’s still troublesome. As we are merciful people, we decided to help you and father, so you would never have to worry about such trivial matters.”

Oh gods. Every organ inside her clenched in terror as she realized her concerns hadn’t been wrong - he wasn’t going to “only” rape her. He was going to rape her so badly she would never be able to bear children.

Sansa tried to close her legs, horror spreading throughout her with some growing panic she couldn’t suppress. Ramsay cackled at her while Myranda moved even closer, brushing her knife against Sansa’s neck. It was a light, threatening touch, so no blood appeared, but it left her with no doubt - she was going to bleed either way. She shuddered but didn’t relent, her legs clenching Ramsay’s hand, not allowing him to move any farther. She won’t surrender so easily. She won’t beg for mercy, and she won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her tears.

“Be a good girl and it will only hurt... pretty much.”

Ramsay used his feet to forcefully spread her legs apart. Myranda’s knife teased at her skin as she swayed to the side, and this time it drew a little blood. Sansa shut her eyes tightly closed, almost praying, wishing to dissociate from the events, quivering but not crying as the bastard’s hand went higher and higher...

The door burst open and every grip on her body subsided, leaving her alone and limp. She fell to the floor, holding onto the shelves as she continued to tremble, her eyes still closed. Something else clattered on the floor next to her, and almost blindly she reached for it, the cool surface of the blade slightly soothing her raging senses.

“Father, I...”

She felt like she was in some kind of trance, her heart racing so quickly she feared it might explode in her chest, her breathing shallow, her ears filled with the rush of her blood. On instinct she hid the blade in her sleeve, ignoring the cut it made somewhere on her forearm on its way up. Only then did she dare to look behind her to see what exactly had befallen.

No Sandor Clegane, but a savior nonetheless. Her husband stood in the open door, having thrown Reek to the side, and glared at his bastard in a way that could kill through the sheer force of the gaze. He didn't seem agitated as a normal human being should be given the situation, but there was something different in his features. Maybe it was his kind of fury, or maybe rather of disappointment. 

“Don’t speak to me. Leave.” The case was similar with his voice - still just as calm as ever, but somehow much more menacing. Watching Ramsay’s face twist in dread brought Sansa sheer delight. “I’ll deal with you later.”

Ramsay didn’t need to be repeated twice; he grabbed Myranda by her arm and pushed her towards the door, quickly leaving the library. Reek gathered himself from the floor and silently followed them, casting one parting glance at Sansa, his eyes filled with sorrow and self-loathing. She immediately looked away with disgust.

The door shut behind them, making her startle. The nightmare was over and she managed to remain in one piece; yet, she didn’t feel saved, everything in her still clenched in horror.

She felt Roose coming closer and saw him reaching his hand to help her stand. She stared at it for a while, unsure whether her legs would even hold her, unwilling to touch any man at the moment, and especially none that shared the same blood with her potential raper. Roose waited for a moment, then changed his approach and lifted her on his own, his hands underneath her arms. She shuddered at the touch, almost opposing it.

“You’re safe now,” he stated, leading her to a chair. She didn’t want his touch, she didn’t want anything except for the world to leave her alone, to let her be for once in her life. “Are you hurt?”

She gazed at him briefly before collapsing onto the chair, the question sounding more foolish than anything ever before. She almost snapped at him before some reason came back to her mind. _Get a grip,_ she scolded herself. _Remember the plan._

“No.” His fingertips brushed her neck, his brows raising at the sight of blood that stained them. “Not much. You got here on time.”

He looked at her in silence for a moment, rubbing his blood-stained fingers against each other. She tried to put on some mask of gratitude or relief, or force herself to thank him, but she wasn’t able to. Her body still shivered, the horrors vivid in her mind; luckily, her eyes were dry. She didn’t wish to have him witness her tears either.

His eyes went down her arm, stopping at the outline of the blade underneath her gown.

“You will get better protection, I assure you. You won’t be needing that.” He reached his hand expectantly. With reluctance, she withdrew the knife and handed it to him, for a fleeting moment wishing to stab him with it. But then she would be left on Ramsay’s mercy, and quite possibly there could be no fate worse than that.

Roose took the knife and hid it behind his belt; Sansa just gazed blankly at its hilt for a while, unable to function. Finally, she swallowed all the bile still in her throat and looked up at him, trying to convey just the right amount of gratitude, relief, and horror. In a way, she truly should be grateful. If he hadn’t barged in... She shuddered at the thought.

“Thank you.” It was everything she could utter at the moment. His motives were probably egoistic in nature and nothing more, but he saved her from things worse than death either way.

He acknowledged it with a small nod.

“Ramsay won’t bother you anymore,” he said, observing her.

“What will you do?” Her voice was quiet, slightly quivering. She discovered that she still didn’t have much control over her body, as it continued to shake, prepared for an assault.

“I’ll talk to him.”

She almost huffed in indignation.

“And talking will be enough?”

“Yes.”

She realized she won’t get anything more specific. But maybe... maybe that was her clue and she could push her plan further into motion. The recent events had to deepen the wedge and enhance the distrust between the father and the son; she just had to steer it in the right direction and use it to her advantage.

“My lord...” She made her voice even more filled with fright than it truly was, and looked at him with fearful, disbelieving eyes. “If I may say something delicate...”

“You may.” He sat down next to her and waited for her to continue.

She still felt Ramsay’s grip on her as she lay her hands on the table, staring at them and biting her lower lip - she believed she was doing some proper acting at that moment. If she told Roose everything Ramsay had said, he would have to do something with his bastard, while Ramsay should leave the Northmen alone without making his threats come true, considering she didn’t even have to say anything for Roose to figure it all out. The younger Bolton might still kill someone in some personal vengeance against her or maybe just from sheer frustration, but she could do nothing about it. Her words won’t hurt them; on the contrary, might even prove to be protective.

“He… Ramsay, he said they are bored and I’ll entertain them a little...” she started quietly, her eyes fastened on her hands, "...that he’ll kill innocent Northerners if I don’t do what he says, or if I tell you about it. A-and...” she stuttered, then looked him in the eyes, which were as unmoved as ever. “He said he’ll do us a favor and make it so I would never bear a child. He’s afraid of what will happen to him if I give you an heir, isn’t he?” she asked cautiously. Ramsay wasn’t a complicated man, though he might consider himself otherwise. He was simple to see through, in sharp opposition to his father.

“As I told you, you won’t have to worry about him anymore.” Again, it was everything she got as an answer, but the proper words had already been spoken. Roose stood up, indicating the conversation was over. “If you would feel safer you might work from your chamber, or near my quarters.”

It was an interesting notion - being near him might be a wise choice, both for her safety and her plan. Getting closer to Ramsay was now out of the question, so it was even of greater importance to get closer to Roose.

“I’ll give it a thought, thank you.” She somehow managed to conjure a small smile. Suddenly, something in his appearance struck her. He was dressed in his normal attire, not the riding clothing she had seen this morning. If he had rushed here in a hurry, he would have had no time to change his clothes.

She was unsure whether she should cry or laugh hysterically at the realization that finally dawned on her.

“This was a test, wasn’t it?” The words left her mouth before she could stop them; she would probably utter them either way, though.

“A test?” He looked at her enquiringly, tilting his head.

“Of Ramsay’s intentions. You told us you were going away, but you never intended to leave. You wanted to see what he would do in your alleged absence.” Probably, what _they_ would do. It was a test for both her and Ramsay. “Ramsay needed to act quickly, so my potential wounds would manage to heal before you came back, and he wasted no time, doing exactly what you thought he would. And because of the threats he made to the people of the North, you would never know what befell between us.”

She didn’t hold back this time, confronting him as much as she only could. And she could also swear there was a spark of interest in his eyes at her brilliant deduction.

“You could come earlier,” she added, a hint of indignation in her voice.

“Then I wouldn’t know as much as I know now, would I?” She didn’t expect him to confirm her accusations, so it took her by a slight surprise. “And you aren’t hurt, you said so yourself.”

“So it's a double victory for you.” Resentment grew within her, though she did her best to contain it.

“Yes.” He stared at her for a moment in silence, and she withstood his gaze, trying to keep her feelings within her and not let them reach her eyes. “I’d suggest you retire for today, it must have been pretty... exhausting.” _Exhausting._ Such a suitable word to describe a situation where she had been nearly raped and violated in a way that made her shudder at the sheer thought. “I'll escort you to your chamber.”

Personally? That surprised her slightly; she hoped he truly meant only to accompany her there, because her body would not stand anything else today, and most probably in the nearest future as well. She nodded her head slowly, agreeing to his proposition.

He offered her his arm and she reluctantly accepted it, her body involuntarily leaning onto him, too traumatized to manage on its own. They walked to her chamber in silence; at the door, he bid her farewell and left her alone, much to her relief.

Once inside, she slid down the door and onto the floor, put her knees to her chest and hid her head between her legs, her body trembling.

She felt the agitation slowly escaping her body, leaving her with a sense of sheer dread. She quivered in it for a while, until hatred and anger filled her veins once again, combined with an intense wish to see Ramsay taking his last dying breath. He will get his due, she could promise him that much.

Once her mind regained its ability to focus, it came to some important conclusions. Of course, there were Northern loyalists who would stand behind a Stark and fight for them until their dying day. But just as well there had to be people who would benefit from her demise, not only from the South. Like those who detested the Bolton rule so much they wouldn’t hesitate to kill her, just to weaken house Bolton's position. Or those who wanted to take her for themselves, people possibly worse than Roose. She had met enough monsters in her life to know there always could be someone worse. And actually, taking under consideration only his behavior towards her, Roose was pretty low on that list.

There were no tears left in her to shed; unable to calm her nerves in any other way Sansa went to sleep, or rather tried to because the only things she got were nightmares, nightmares filled with blood, murders, rapes, deaths. Ramsay’s wild, psychopathic grin and Roose’s pale eyes. Her gown stained red at her womb. And a baby, a baby that looked like it was made from gold, but shattered at the slightest touch, breaking into million pieces.

She woke up screaming, covered in cold sweat. The walls seemed to be closing in on her, suffocating her; some indescribable evil crawled to her from the shadows in the corners of her chamber. It bared its teeth and growled, its eyes shining in the dark...

She woke up for real this time, horror flooding her.

The growling and howling stayed with her as she managed to get into sleep once again, the darkness more than willing to accept her into its cold embraces, satisfied it could torment her some more. 


	7. The Turning Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the events from the last chapter, and a little bit of Sansa's musings (because every chapter needs to have those! *winks*). I incorporated one scene from the show because it will prove to be relevant in the future.
> 
> In the nearest three weeks, my time will be significantly limited, as I have to study for an important exam, so I might not be as present as I would wish to be. But, considering this story is my main source of emotional support since mid-April, I'll do my best so the studying wouldn't interfere much with it! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the new chapter and let me know in the comments what you thought of it!

The morning came, and it was empty. Sansa was empty. There were only demons around her, and she was deep in the seven hells.

Though she had slept through the majority of the night, rest seemed to be an elusive concept. Her head was heavy, her legs didn’t want to move, her hands trembled. Most of all, she felt stupid and humiliated.

How could she have thought she would be able to tame the monsters around her if she still didn’t wear her own armor of steel? Deep down she knew the game was far from over, and that she just had to focus on one monster from now on - which actually might make her plan slightly easier - but this morning she felt defeated. Once again a little bird in the lion’s claws, just waiting to be ravished, as helpless as ever.

That little bird approached the water bowl waiting for her beneath the mirror and gazed at her reflection in the still surface. There was a ghost staring back at her: red hair hung lifelessly on both sides of the pale face with deep purple circles underneath darkened, sad eyes. She was a shadow.

Angrily, she interfered with the liquid mirror and the water swirled, her reflection changing, transforming into her own kind of monster. Was this what she had to become in order to win?

The water felt cold as she immersed her face in it in hopes it would wash away the emptiness, filling it with a will to fight, a wish to live. Nothing like that happened: it didn’t alter her soul or dispersed her worries. It just made her wet and cold.

Irritated, Sansa quickly straightened and almost cried out at the sight of an old woman in the mirror, standing right behind her.

“Don’t fear me, lady Stark.” The woman smiled comfortingly at her, and even though Sansa’s heart beat wildly in her chest she felt there was truly nothing to fear. “I come in good faith.”

She was old, a small folk servant no doubt: her clothes hung loosely from her thin body, her hands were wrinkled and damaged from hard work, but her eyes were full of life, probably much more than Sansa's.

“Who are you?” Sansa asked, a little more at ease, but still cautious.

“A friend who wants you to know you’re not alone,” the woman answered, a consoling smile lightening her worn features. “If you’re ever in need of rescue, light a candle in the Broken Tower’s window. There is a lady knight in winter town waiting for your orders.”

Lady knight? Brienne of Tarth?

Sansa felt a wave of anger approaching. She had told the woman she didn’t need assistance, especially not from people carrying Lannister’s gold around, and Littlefinger had chased her away. The fact she no longer trusted Petyr Baelish didn’t change anything: her answer would still be the same. She wasn’t a damsel in distress anymore, even though last events might have suggested otherwise. No still meant no. She wasn’t interested in such a service at the moment. Maybe in some possibly not so far away future when her situation would change she will look differently at that proposition, but it was not that time.

Lady of Tarth would have to wait patiently if she wanted to be Sansa's protector. Sansa wondered whether she would go out at nights to watch the tower for any source of light, and how long she will stand it. That would be a dedication that might cloud her previous sins, like her inability to protect anyone she had sworn to protect.

“Thank you,” Sansa said nonetheless. “I don’t need any assistance. I’m home.”

The woman nodded, clearly unconvinced, but something in Sansa's stance must have prevented her from arguing. Turning to leave, she cast Sansa a parting smile.

“Remember you’re not alone, lady Stark.”

Sansa watched her as she left, internally scoffing at those words. She was alone here. What could they possibly know about her situation, how she felt here, as... lady Bolton? In these walls, there was no one she could turn for advice, no one who could change the situation she had found herself in. No one but herself. To truly be what she wanted to be, to do what she wanted to do, she needed something more than a few faithful smallfolk and one "lady knight". She needed the whole North.

Deciding to use this day as some kind of a turning point, to reflect upon everything in peace - after such “exhausting” events no one should blame her for needing some time for herself, probably - she finally called for her handmaiden and prepared for the new day.

Three completely new guards awaited her in the corridor. She forced herself to greet every one of them, though their stern faces weren’t exactly inviting. Heading to the Great Hall, she wondered whether she would stumble upon the flayed bodies of her previous guardians; she had no doubt their fate was any different.

All the thoughts vanished from her head when she saw Ramsay sitting at the dining table.

She stopped in the doorway, every emotion from the other day rushing back to her, fastening her to the spot. Turning away from the bastard with unhidden disgust, she glared at Roose, not understanding what the hell was going on - why did he allow it? Had he truly only _talked_ with Ramsay, and nothing will change?

And what if... what if she had read it all wrong, and everything was a part of some grand plan designed to break her most viciously, destroying her both physically and emotionally until there was nothing left? Fear threatened to clutch her heart as she did her best to remain brave, at least on the outside.

“What is he doing here?” she demanded to know, a thought of keeping her mouth shut never crossing her mind. Fury started reigning inside her, and she was ready to unleash that angry, vengeful wolf within her without caring for consequences.

Upon seeing her Ramsay sprung to his feet, and she did her best to refrain from both flinching and coming closer to slap him as hard as she only could.

“Ramsay has something important to tell you.” Roose’s voice was completely calm as they briefly gazed at each other before coming back to glaring at Ramsay.

The bastard circled the table, coming to a stop in front of her. He no longer looked proud or menacing, but rather like a beaten dog - half of his face was red and swollen, and his nose seemed broken. There was a telling expression in his eyes, the one of pain and hurt vanity, mixed with a little bit of hatred he tried to conceal.

Sansa on her part did nothing to hide the smirk of cold satisfaction that spread on her lips.

“My lady.” He bowed low before her, his voice respectful and remorseful. He was a good actor, she had to give him that much. Still, no one in the chamber would truly fall for it, and they all knew it. What was even the point of this charade? So Roose would prove to himself he had some power over his bastard? “I know what I did is unforgivable. I was wrong in my behavior towards you. I just wanted to apologize from the bottom of my black heart.”

“You don’t have a heart,” she sneered at him, her voice cold and steady, her gaze fueled by the fire of her hatred and repulsion.

“No, my lady, you’re probably right.” He faked a saddened, sorrowful smile. “I’m a heartless bastard who didn't know where his place was.”

The bitterness in his voice might be the only real thing she had heard from him. She wasn’t going to pity him for being a bastard, not in the slightest.

“Do you know it now?” 

“In the Dreadfort. I’ll be guarding our home as the Lord of the Dreadfort.” He bared his teeth in a grin, as much as he could, given half of his face wasn’t working.

“Good.” That didn’t sound like a punishment at all, but at least he would be out of her sight. She was in no position to demand he paid the price he truly deserved. Not now, at least. “Because I am the Lady of Winterfell and this is my home. I don't want to see you here ever again. Your apologies aren't accepted.”

With those words she passed him gracefully, noting how dumbfounded they left him, and sat on the chair in front of Roose, never glancing back at Ramsay.

“You heard the lady.” Roose’s voice seemed to border on amusement. She gazed up at him, but of course, nothing in his face gave way to what he was truly thinking. “Go. And don’t disappoint me again. You know this is your last chance.”

Sansa sensed some deep tension between them and started wondering how exactly could their “talk” have gone. Ramsay definitely wasn’t satisfied with the result, while Roose seemed to be rather victorious. It was slightly peculiar, considering Ramsay had come from having no title to being the Lord of the Dreadfort, but there had to be something she was missing. Most likely it had to do with the line of succession and being the heir to places more important than their ancestral castle.

After a moment of silent staring, Ramsay turned around and rushed angrily out of the chamber, without bidding them farewells. Despite the cold demeanor and fierce hatred in her veins, Sansa only now felt she could breathe. It had cost her a lot of nerves to face him; she didn’t even realize how much exactly until he was gone, until the boiling anger subsided leaving only the remnants of horror in its wake.

“My lady?”

She gazed up at Roose, his eyes fastened on her. Such strong emotions must have shown, and she wasn’t ashamed of that. On the contrary, she was proud of herself for standing her ground, especially that she had had no idea how both - the son and the father - would react, and taken her chances nonetheless. Maybe, just maybe, it earned her some respect from the cold-hearted man sitting across the table. Though, as she had just told Ramsay, the Boltons didn’t have hearts.

“I’d like to spend some time in the crypts today, if I may.” She said, her voice completely steady and neutral. It was a spontaneous idea - she needed to free herself from excessive emotions and finally calm down. What was a better place to do so than the one where she could be surrounded by her family?

“You don’t have to...”

“Alone.” She cut him short, suspecting the end of the sentence. She didn’t have to tell him where she wanted to go, true, but the soldiers would follow, and she wished to be alone with her ancestors.

He watched her for a moment before finally nodding, after which he beckoned to one of her guards, standing in the open doors of the Great Hall.

“Lady Sansa wishes to go to the crypts, alone. Check for any potential threats and leave her be,” he ordered and the man nodded before retreating to his post.

 _Any possible threats._ This time she knew it was at least partially true, apart from the “threat” of conspiring with fellow Northmen.

“Thank you.” She forced the corners of her mouth to go slightly upward. Given how spacious the crypts were, with corridors reaching far, far away - she wasn’t even sure how far herself - she suspected she won’t be there alone after all, the soldiers stationed in a distance so she wouldn’t notice them, but still present to make sure she won’t use the crypts as her escape route.

Roose just nodded again and returned to his breakfast. Sansa looked down at her plate, but discovered she still didn’t regain her appetite. Especially that there were some pieces of Ramsay’s issue left untouched.

“Will Ramsay go alone?” she asked, ready to demand a thing or two if needed.

“If you’re asking about his... companions, then no, they will go with him. Alongside his hounds.” The knot in her stomach loosened significantly. “Unless you want the Greyjoy boy to stay.”

“No,” she snapped quickly, probably way too quickly. Roose gazed at her with something akin to mild interest and she felt forced to continue. “Why would I?”

“You grew up together,” he noticed indifferently.

“He murdered my brothers.” Her voice was sheer ice. Ironic to whom she was speaking about such matters. She almost added _“and betrayed Robb”_ but stopped herself at the last moment. It would be a too perfect description of her husband to utter it aloud. Instead, she transformed her lips into a thin line of scorn and added bitterly, “Besides, I grew up with Theon Greyjoy, who I didn’t even especially like. This... thing isn’t Theon. It’s Reek.”

“Ramsay took care of that. As a punishment for your brothers.”

She truly wanted to laugh in his face at that.

“I don’t know Ramsay for long, but I believe it's safe to assume he didn’t care about any punishment. He just wanted to play and found Theon a perfect toy.”

“Perhaps.”

“Don’t you think he would want to retaliate? He seemed pretty humiliated, especially with me ordering him.” She took her cup and discovered water in it. Was it the result of their conversation in Roose's study?

“As you told him, you are the Lady of Winterfell. You have every right to order him and he should remember that.” It was still slightly beyond her comprehension - bastard or not, Roose had legitimized Ramsay, and as long as she didn’t bore him a son, Ramsay was his heir. She understood showing the lad his place as definitely inferior to the Warden of the North, but to her as well? Why? What could Roose possibly gain from it? “He doesn’t have enough people to retaliate.”

“Yet,” she noticed, her brow going higher in doubt. 

“He isn't exactly a type of leader people would like to follow.” The same applied to Roose if anyone asked her. “Even so, a bunch of lunatics shouldn’t be very hard to defeat.”

“Unless you underestimate him.” He looked up at her and she couldn’t say whether he was genuinely intrigued or bored. “Lunatics are easy to underestimate, and there is a price to pay. I’ve seen it in King’s Landing.”

As he watched her intently she decided he probably wasn’t bored after all.

“Thank you for your valuable insight.” There was a peculiar smile playing on his lips; somehow, she felt he truly meant what he said. “I’ll see to it that if such time comes, we are prepared.”

“Good.” She gave him a smile of her own. Heavens, they were having something resembling a normal conversation! Filled with dual meanings, ironies, and beautiful lies, but she was mostly saying what truly was on her mind. It was probably the most natural discussion they had ever had, flowing pretty seamlessly. Unbelievable. Maybe she had truly reached some turning point and things will look slightly different from now on. She decided to continue the conversation until it would die out on its own. “So, you basically gave him the Dreadfort.”

“Yes. I won’t have much need of it now that I’m the Lord of Winterfell, but it might pacify Ramsay for a while.”

“But it is your home,” she commented with an innocent expression, watching him closely for any reaction.

 _Home._ She wore this word close to her heart, now much closer than ever. Hostile, ruined Winterfell didn’t feel much like home, but it was and forever will be it, even despite her long gone initial intentions.

“And what is home exactly?”

“A place where you grew up. Where you were carefree and happy once.” She didn’t suspect he would know. Had he had any childhood at all? She could hardly imagine it.

“I don’t place a lot of emphasis on such trivial matters. And neither should you if you truly want to have power.”

“Then I feel sorry for you, my lord,” she ended gracefully, lowering her eyes to her breakfast, satisfied with her remark.

“No need to feel sorry for me, my lady.” He had to have the last word, didn’t he?

They went silent, focusing on their meals. Sansa’s appetite was back, but she wanted to go to the crypts to clear her mind as soon as possible.

The rest of the breakfast passed rather quickly and quietly, and soon she found herself standing on the first step leading down to the darkness of the crypts. She hadn’t been here since the day of her arrival, afraid of the judgment her ancestors might bestow upon her actions. By agreeing on this marriage she had strayed from the righteous Stark ways and whatever she was going to do in the future will diverge her from the proper paths even more. Today, she didn’t need their condemnation; today, she far more needed their advice.

Descending the stairs in the darkness, with only a single candle to guide her way, she felt the silence of the ages weighing on her. In that other life of some other Sansa Stark, she had never been fond of this place. It had been too dark, too gloomy and unpleasant for her liking. She had preferred brightness, vivid colors, the happiness of livelier countries over the sulking northern nostalgia. Now this place meant the world to her heart, and the nostalgia seemed to be everything she had.

Her steps echoed throughout the lifeless space, at first slow and hesitant, then calm and determined. Even if the judgment was to come, she was ready to receive it.

It was dreadfully cold down there, her breath turning into icy mist, her lungs prickling as it hurt to breathe. It had always been freezing, but with Winter upon them, it seemed even worse now. She shivered and rubbed her arms to generate some warmth, wishing she had brought some additional furs with her. It was too late to go back now, though, so instead, she just went deeper into the crypts, trying to focus on the light in her hands and the stone statues all around her.

First, she paid her respects to some of the ancestors she had never even met but always heard so much about. Like her aunt Lyanna, beloved by everyone everywhere. Sansa lit candles in their hands, forever frozen in stone, and stared at their dead, immovable faces. They stared back at her, chills going down her spine as she did her best to withstand their stern gazes.

Then, she stopped by her father’s statue. She didn’t know how his remains had made it back home, but she was grateful to whoever was responsible for it. She still saw his head on the spike in King’s Landing. Ned Stark belonged to the North, and now he was home. Forever.

She fell on her knees before him, the terrible scene of his death replaying in her head. That was the moment something in her had died irrevocably, a part of her that believed the world was a good place, a part that constituted the majority of her younger self. It was gone now, gone just as her parents and siblings. She had to make herself anew. She was left to fend for herself in a hostile world, hostile home, among enemies. And she will fend well, rising again to show the world the power of the Starks was not lost.

However long it will take, whatever it will demand of her, she will do that. She will prevail and the wolf will once again hang from Winterfell walls.

They will be proud of her.

Eddard Stark’s stone eyes stared down at her, at his lost daughter trying to find her way home. This way will lead her through deception, manipulation, and murder, everything he would condemn. But it was no longer his world, the peaceful North loyal to their Stark Warden. Or maybe it had never been his world, only the sweet illusion he had chosen to live and to raise his children in, too immersed in his honorable views to truly notice the real nature of the people around him. Nothing more but a mirage of things long lost.

But the North will be loyal to their Stark Wardeness when this madness would finally end, or else she will join her father in the coldness of this place. If anyone would care enough for her remains to lay them down here, which was highly unlikely.

“Forgive me, father,” she whispered, wiping her watering eyes with the back of her sleeve. His condemning gaze burnt within her soul as his face came alive inside her mind. She couldn’t stand it.

Trying her best to remain composed she crawled over to Lyanna’s statue; maybe her aunt would understand her more, as a woman, as a noble lady who found herself in worse than dire circumstances. She felt she wasn’t wrong - the stone remained just that, a cold dead statue without emotions. Here, she could continue to plot her revenge.

She knew her behavior up till this point was somewhat inconsistent with her plans, depending too much on her distastes and emotions. She had wanted to do too many things at once - manipulating both the Boltons, tending to the North and Winterfell in their issues, getting to know everything about everything and everyone. That was simply impossible for one person alone.

Now that Ramsay was no longer in the picture, there was one less thing to worry about, or maybe one less scheme she had tried to incorporate into her future. From that moment on, she had to focus on two things only: preparing the North for the Winter and finally wrapping Roose around her finger. Being her best self as the Wardeness of the North while manipulating him enough to make him trust her and lose his footing, and when this will happen she will be ready. Her loyal people will wipe the Boltons out of the surface of this realm, once and for all until there will be no sign of the flayed man anywhere. The North will once again be free.

Staring at Lyanna’s statue, Sansa wondered. What kind of a woman could be perfect for manipulating a man so impenetrable as Roose Bolton? Intelligent, for sure, with a sharp mind to match his own. Cunning, to follow his ways of thinking. Fearless in a way of not letting those beneath her get in her way, as shown even in their conversation earlier this morning. Honest to a point where it suited his interests. Cruel, probably, but not for the joy of cruelty itself, as indicated by his approach to Ramsay - she could not be that either way. Not overly talkative, as he wasn't a man of many words himself. Retaining her dignity - a grain of respect she had seen a few times in his eyes proved her that. Not emotional - did he even know what emotions were? Strong and knowing her value and her duties to both her country and her husband, performing them both with grace and ease.

Was she that kind of a woman? If she yet wasn’t, she will become one, shaping herself into such a person. Except for cruelty, though deep down she knew her heart wasn’t as pure as everyone around her probably thought it to be. Were they to give her Cersei Lannister, they would see what she was truly capable of. The darkest corners of her heart were also reserved for her husband himself, just waiting in the dark, lurking until their time would finally come.

She couldn’t wait for someone else to start her salvation; she had to do it all by herself. Putting her trust in any other player in the game was out of option, especially that she despised all of them. Stannis might be a skilled commander and someone her father had put his faith in, but from what she had heard he was also a fanatic, burning people just because their views didn’t match his own. That sounded just as mad as some things Joffrey had done, and didn’t bode well. The Greyjoys were more than despicable and she had no intention of ever trusting any of them. Brienne of Tarth did not deserve any attention from her as far, and Jon... Jon wasn't here, and most probably had his own issues to worry about.

Once upon a time, she might have counted on someone else. But, as she just now realized, that one specific traitor of hers, the one who loved to call himself her friend, had initially tried to wed her to Ramsay, not Roose. Considering there was no little detail about anyone that could escape Petyr Baelish's perceptive sight, he had had to know what kind of person Ramsay was, and still opted for giving her away to him. She felt hatred flooding her whole being. Her husband might be someone she would never choose even in the worst of her nightmares, but if she had been given to Ramsay instead... she shuddered at the thought. Raped every single night, beaten, humiliated, gods knew what else. Fed to the hounds, maybe.

No, she had to be her own person, her own savior, once and for all. Shape herself in a desirable way. Wrap her cold-hearted husband around her finger. Be a good wife. Show him she truly wasn’t afraid, of him or anything else. Not in the daylight, not in the dimness of her bedchamber.

Because she was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and she was home.

If the road to power demanded playing a perfect Lady Bolton for a while - no matter how much she despised that phrase - then so be it.

When she stood up from the ground, her knees hurting, her whole body shivering from cold, she felt reborn. A new person on the path to regaining what was rightfully hers.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing indeed.

Or rather in a flayed man’s skin. 


	8. A Changed Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long to update; I wanted to do it sooner, but life is particularly stressful right now and demands a lot of my attention. I'm not sure if it's going to change in the nearest future, but I'll try to publish the next chapter sooner than this one! 
> 
> As I mentioned before, the canon for all the storylines but the Northern ones is going forward in the background, though most likely at a different pace. Jon's and Stannis' storylines are slightly modified, and their chronology changes - hence Jon is already LC while Stannis is nowhere to be seen. It will be explained in more detail in the future. 
> 
> Also, politics - I truly don't know if what I mention in this chapter is even politically possible, but bear with me here, please. Since there are not a lot of Northern houses mentioned in the show (and from what I gathered neither are in the books), and there have to be more people living in the North considering how vast it is, I'll probably create some family/knights' names for the story's sake. 
> 
> Enjoy and tell me your thoughts! Love you all!

Sansa spent the whole night preparing fully for her role, sewing a new dress most diligently. There was one unfinished gown she had been working on during the last moon, and the amount of work left would enable her to make it whole by the next morrow. The initial concept wasn’t going to stay, however - a dress embroidered solely with wolves would not befit a perfect lady Bolton.

She had plenty of usable material given to her as wedding gifts, with both sigils sewed into them. The pieces containing the flayed man banner were hidden deep underneath her gowns so she wouldn't have to look at them; right now, they could prove more than useful.

The material she had chosen for her new dress was dark, dark as the current state of her heart; quite similar in shade to the one she had made in the Eyrie, slightly because she wanted to achieve the same effect. See what she had seen in Littlefinger’s eyes back then, this time in another set of irises.

The gifted fabric fitted well to the bodice she had made before, the sigils morbidly complementing each other, however repulsed by it she felt. The part with the wolves on the left side, close to the heart. The part with the flayed men on the right, and the deep cleavage in between them. She had worn her Eyrie dress in Winterfell, but this one… This one felt different. Both symbolized new chapters in her life, embracing her darker side. The former had been made for her as well as Littlefinger, and she felt proud about every aspect of it; the latter was entirely for Roose, and felt like a betrayal. She had to learn to suppress that feeling and wear it just as proudly, with her head held high. As  _ lady Bolton  _ should have.

There will be no dyeing her hair this time, however. Her hair will be her banner, the sign of her fierce soul. It will be her strength, her link to her family, alive as long as the memory of them lived inside her.

She hadn’t slept at all that night, but the final result she achieved at dawn was well worth it. A dress fitting for Sansa Bolton of House Stark. Her handmaiden helped her put it on with awe, and let her hair fall freely all around her without taming them at all. Sansa gazed at her own reflection, her stare cold and unforgiving before she donned a mask of a proper lady and a smile of a good wife. She was ready.

Greeting Roose at breakfast, she watched for his reaction at her new appearance, comparing it to what she had seen in Littlefinger’s eyes back in the Vale. Petyr might have played a complicated game, but in fact, he truly wasn’t a complicated man. He desired absolute power, and he desired her. Whether it was for her alone or just stemming from his unrequited love for her mother, she wasn’t entirely sure. But she knew one thing - wild, untamed lust had been clearly visible in his eyes, lust and some kind of morbid admiration, fascination even. He was easy to read through once someone gained a key to his mind; probably not many people in his life had ever come into possession of that device, but Sansa had already acquired it. She was smarter than he had ever given her credit for.

Roose’s eyes, on the contrary, gave away nothing. But, he definitely noticed the change as his gaze scrutinized her anew, analyzing.

“You will need a proper clasp to match,” he commented, acknowledging her new look aloud. She looked down at the broach she had used to secure her cloak with - it was an elaborate rose, a gift from Margaery. Was she ever to return home, she would need something for her fur, and it would always remind her of the dear friend, Margaery had said. Though it hurt her to admit it, Roose was right - it didn't match her new garment. “I will have something made for you.”

Roose Bolton talking about jewelry sounded bizarre, but Sansa gathered it would be yet another way to brand her as his own, so no one would have any doubt who she belonged to.

“Thank you.” She smiled politely, wondering whether she would have to wear a flayed man right next to her heart after all. Possibly yes, and she will have to do it proudly. “I’ve been thinking about moving my work to your quarters.”  _ Keep your enemies close _ , as someone smart had once said. “If the offer still stands, I’d like to take it up.”

“Very well.” He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. “The men will prepare a study for you.”

“Thank you,” she repeated, marveling at the politeness of their exchange. She had just thanked the murderer of her family twice in the course of the last few minutes, that must have been some record.

She scolded herself in her mind - she had to finally stop thinking of him this way when she was in his company: something might slip, and it will ruin everything.

Suddenly, the hurried footsteps started echoing through the adjacent corridor and after a while Maester Wolkan came into view, panting slightly.

“My lord, my lady,” he greeted them quite breathlessly as they both stared at him, waiting. “The last of the expected ravens came back.”

Sansa’s heart flipped in her chest; amidst all the last events, she had almost forgotten she was waiting for the Northern lords’ responses. But... “expected ravens”? What did it even mean? Had Roose known from the very start who was going to write them back, and who wasn’t?

She peered up at him at the same moment that he decided to look at her. As their gazes locked, she felt some peculiar thread of connection over a common cause. It was absurd, and the realization made her feel uncomfortable - wasn’t she trying to save the North from him first and foremost? Though, in a way, it was only logical that in his own morbid views he was interested in the Northerners’ well-being. Without its inhabitants, the North would be just a vast empty space he wouldn’t be able to keep on his own, nor would even want to - what good could a frozen scrap of land bring him? Being a Warden of the Cold Ground of Nothingness would be a laughing stock, no power standing behind the title. He needed the Northerners alive, and possibly on his side.

“We’ll read them in my study,” Roose informed the Maester, and the older man quickly hurried away. Sansa was ready to announce she was done with her breakfast even though she had barely touched it, so eager was she to see the responses. Roose anticipated that, however. “Finish your eating.”

She might appreciate his taking care of her eating habits if only she didn’t feel like she was being fed only for her body to be fit for its main purpose, in his eyes at least: giving him an heir. Without complaining, she finished her breakfast, and then they went to see the responses, together.

A lot of folded parchments with different sigils were deposited on Roose's desk, waiting to be read. With her heart beating loudly in her throat, Sansa tentatively touched the first one. Roose sat on a chair across the desk and gestured at her to do the same.

“You may read them aloud,” he offered and she nodded, quickly destroying the first sigil.

There were times the words danced before her eyes as she did her best to convey exterior satisfaction while anger burnt bright in her veins for the betrayal of her house. Other answers made her heart beat quicker in fear for the rebelling lords and their future survival. Some of the rest... Scarlet crept to her cheeks as she tried to force her throat to pronounce words like “cunt”, “scum” or “fucking”. Cursing was definitely not for her liking.

Overall, the only house positively supporting the Boltons was House Karstark. She didn’t exactly know why, having heard only scarce information, but she will find that out. A few smaller houses agreed for cooperation - maybe they were in a dire situation in the face of Winter, the kind when loyalties no longer mattered and the only thing left was a desperate attempt at survival; or maybe they had heard of Ramsay’s ways with lords who disobeyed the Boltons and didn't wish to take their chances. There were neutral houses, talking about fending for themselves solely, like House Manderly - however, fortunately for Sansa, they allowed the trade to pass through White Harbor, for the sake of the whole North; some who politely yet firmly denied a pledge, like House Mormont; lastly, there were also openly insulting responses, like the letter from Greatjon Umber. Sansa realized she had sent a lot more letters, more than a few left unanswered - Roose had had to know they would remain that way from the very start, hence the “expected ravens” phrase.

Folding the parchments to keep her hands busy, she avoided looking up for as long as she could, but finally, she had to face it. Roose just gazed at her expectantly, in silence that started ringing in her ears, demanding a change.

“And?” That was all he said, but it was enough. She knew what he meant. Following the Red Wedding, the lords had had to choose a side, either openly or secretly, and Roose had already known who supported his claim, truly or just faking it. She grew more certain that this farce was for her information only, so she could see how it all truly looked like. But, probably as a side effect, she also realized how wrong she had been before, thinking her power was only an illusion. She alone bore the potential to change the lords' minds. She alone could make them follow House Bolton or hate them even more. Given her fate and safety depended on it, she couldn't choose the second option, not now at least; even though, it actually made her feel empowered, in a way. By the strength of her name and roots, she held his house in a firm grasp; by her own strength, she will turn it to her advantage.

He held her in a firm grasp as well, though in a much more physical sense. They were equal in some morbidly twisted way, suspended in the peculiar situation of co-dependence.

For the North’s sake, she truly hoped she could change the status quo of the current times. The letters they had sent hadn’t disclosed anything on her personal well-being. If the lords saw her, if they saw her alive and well, pleading with them to fight for her, for the North to survive the Winter... Maybe they’ll listen. Maybe they'll have some chance to get out of it alive.

Looking confidently into Roose's eyes, Sansa started sharing her views.

“As I told you before, they need to be shown something else than terror. They need to see someone is truly caring for the survival of the whole North, and not punishing them for disobedience that should actually be expected, given certain events from the past.” She won’t name it. No force in this realm would make her say it aloud in front of him. “We need to personally show such goodwill.” She wasn’t sure anything she had planned was politically, strategically, or military correct or even possible, but that was what her heart dictated. “You know as well as I do the North cannot be held with fear alone. You can hold it with strict rules that do not harm innocent people, firm gentleness and me, but they have to see I am well. They won’t believe in empty words. Everyone lies.”

He didn’t answer, staring at her, but she could swear she saw a question in his eyes. A question of “why would you do it”.

“I am the Wardeness of the North, flesh and blood a Northerner. I care for the North, and the North as a whole won’t survive divided. We need to work together if we want to get through the Long Night.”

He nodded slowly in acquiescence, with no apparent trust for her whatsoever. Well, at least they were on the same page here. 

“There is also another letter.” He drew a piece of parchment from underneath his doublet and handed it to her. Her heart stopped for a moment when she received it, and she tried to do her best to stop her hands from trembling. This had to be something of grave importance for her especially if the letter was hidden from plain sight.

The seal on the letter was broken, and due to its state, it told her nothing of use. Unfolding the missive Sansa felt a peculiar surge of emotions, and soon she found out where they were coming from.

Jon.

_ Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Jon Snow. _

Her eyes wished to water freely from joy, her whole being wanted to laugh and cry; she remained a stone, however. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. Appearances were everything in situations like this. Getting hold of her emotions, she focused on the contents of the letter, and as she read on the frown that pretty early started creasing her forehead only deepened.

The message was peculiar, at times close to home and easy to understand, but at others unexplainable and sounding slightly... insane. Jon wrote about Wildlings he had let through the Wall, the Watch’s dire situation, and the Long Night filled with White Walkers, the creatures from legends and nightmares he had seen himself.

Allowing Wildlings to pass through the Wall and giving them lands was unbelievable on its own but paled in comparison to the other information. He had seen the White Walkers... himself? For the longest moment, Sansa forgot about her surroundings, reading the words over and over again, trying to make some sense of what they tried to convey.

Her half-brother turned out to be not only alive but also the leader of the Night’s Watch, making alliances with "free folk", fighting the creatures from children’s nightmares, and asking for aid. It didn’t look like Jon’s handwriting, though Sansa had some trouble remembering it as she had never cared about anything related to him back in the days; for a moment she was afraid it was all just a scheme, but then thought twice about it. If Jon was the Lord Commander, he most probably had plenty of other issues to attend to, and someone else wrote his letters for him. He was alive, he was in charge, that much was sure, or rather that much she wanted to believe in. She suspected it had to cost him a lot to send such a letter to the man who murdered his beloved brother. Maybe Jon was doing the very same thing she was - sacrificing their morals and dignity for the sake of the greater good, be it the Watch or the whole North itself. But he probably had to send it to Winterfell, given Roose was the Warden of the North, and as such should have the greatest means to help the Watch. Would he choose to do that was a completely different issue. Did he even believe the words written in the missive?

Did she believe them herself?

Slowly and cautiously, Sansa folded the parchment and set it next to the other ones. Winter. White Walkers. Wildlings. The Ironborn. The Boltons. What other atrocities will plague her poor beloved North?

She looked up at Roose, unsure of what should have shocked her the most, ultimately choosing the truth.

“White Walkers. That’s rather... interesting. And unfortunate.” She wanted to provoke him to comment on it in any way but failed entirely as he just continued to gaze at her in silence. Containing her growing frustration, she asked thoughtfully, “What are you going to do with this request?”

“What are  _ we  _ going to do,” he corrected her. “You are the Wardeness, remember?” The fake smile he gave her accentuated the sarcasm in repeating her words and turning them against her. Apparently, that was one of his talents. “The North is ours.”

“Of course.” She returned the smile, trying to make it more natural than his one. “So what are  _ we  _ going to do?” she pressed on, stressing the “we” the same way he had done it. “We don’t have enough men for the crops, but Jon needs soldiers, not farmers. Can we spare some of our forces? What are our numbers currently?”

During her studies in the library and her everyday work she had dealt with her areas of running the keep, and military issues were not one of them. Therefore, she had plenty of questions and found herself wanting to know, wishing to possess the deepest knowledge of all topics Winterfell- and North-related so she could discuss such things with her husband equipped with an equal amount of insight, without a constant feeling he was, in fact, only taunting her. One day, she will be treated with the respect she deserved, even by him.

“Around five thousand men.”

“Five thousand,” she repeated, concealing her surprise. Her military knowledge might be limited, but she knew that was a lot for a single Northern house. Could be slightly difficult to defeat if it came to that, especially if the Karstarks were to join their forces. “Then we can surely spare some and send them to the Wall. Set a good example for the other lords. It will help the Watch, which, given the letter, they deeply need, and enforce the positive image we will be implementing in general.”

“It will indeed.”

She stared at him for a while, and when he said nothing, insisted further.

“So... will we do that?”

“We might spare fifty men, of the weakest kind, redundant even. No supplies, no weapons, no food. Would it enforce the positive image?”

“It’s better than nothing,” she concluded with a forced smile. Considering what she had heard about the men of the Night’s Watch, fifty trained soldiers, even weakened and not greatly skilled, were far better than a few hundreds of their usual lot.

“Ramsay suggested we should kill your bastard brother to send a different kind of message, and to stop him from ever claiming Winterfell as his own.” Roose’s voice broke her out from her reveries, his words freezing her heart. “I strongly dissuaded him from ever taking such actions.”

Sansa stared back at him, her blood slowly unfreezing, rushing through her veins in turmoil. Why was he telling her such things? She already knew what kind of monster Ramsay was, there was no need to further enhance that notion. Its goal was probably to serve as a thread of trust or emphasize gratitude she should experience upon hearing he had prevented Jon from being flayed by his demented son.

She was too empty inside to even acknowledge it.

“That was wise, my lord,” she commented calmly, staring into his eyes like she hadn't heard anything out of ordinary. “The Northerners would never forgive House Bolton for murdering the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. That just might be the ultimate crime, and there would be no going back from it.”  _ Even worse than murdering your own king, but that won’t be forgiven as well,  _ she added bitterly in her thoughts.

“That’s what I told him.” Roose ended the topic and came back to the abandoned letters. “What is your council on them?”

Sansa swallowed, forcing herself to focus on the matters at hand and erase the image of Ramsay flaying Jon from her mind. It will most probably come back at night to haunt her, the nightmares already ensured.

“We ride to them, speak with them and aid them however we can,” she answered, unsure of her ground. Could they even do that? Would he ever agree to it, truly?

This did not sound like something a lord of a Great House would do, and she couldn't recall ever hearing of such a practice. But not a single subject except for desperate farmers would come to Winterfell on their own, so the roles had to reverse. This way Sansa could get closer to the smaller families, understand their hardships and help them in need, and Roose could show the North she was alive and well, information necessary for his future as the Warden.

He had agreed to the visits during their prior conversation in his study; would he back out of it now? It wouldn't be surprising, considering his promises generally couldn't be taken for granted. He had kept his words with her, though. 

“To the Umbers, for example?” He was testing her once again; she had to do her best, sharpening her mind enough not to fall into any trap. She needed to pass that test.

“No.” She shook her head quickly, without hesitation. “Riding to the Umbers without the whole army behind us would be a death sentence for you.” Her voice was as neutral as his own, and as their eyes locked she made sure hers showed nothing at all. What could be a suicide mission for him, would be liberating for her; yet another reason he could not let that happen. “I would suggest smaller houses, those who agreed but felt rather... reluctant. They’d be a good place to start.”

“Very well. I trust you’ll take care of the arrangements?” The tone of his voice told her she didn’t actually have a choice.

“I will. I’ll prepare the letters for your final approval, of course.”

Of course. He wouldn’t have her writing something reckless, would he?

A small nod she got from him told her he definitely would not have it.

The library, a few days ago a calm shelter from the storm, now stood empty and hostile. A cold shiver of hatred went down Sansa’s spine the moment she stepped inside it, the horrors reigniting in an instant. The images rushed through her head, her body remembering all it had felt, both mentally and physically. Her sense of safety immediately vanished, and once again she reverted to the little lost girl, only wishing for someone to bring her some comfort, whisper some soothing words to her ear and promise it won’t happen again. Almost on instinct, she turned around to see if her guards were near her. They were - those men would not leave her alone, not until the last drop of their blood would fall onto the ground. And even though they were Bolton soldiers, they made her feel better, almost secure.

Despite the negative feelings and painful memories, Sansa spent the rest of the day there, gathering all the salvageable books and dividing them into different categories. The ones important for castle management that would go to the study she will receive; the ones that were of no interest to her that would remain on the broken shelves; and the ones she had never expected to find that brought a deep blush to her cheeks - they would go to her chamber, for future reference.

Going through the materials, she cursed that young red-haired girl that had used to live in the very same corridors all over again. Little Sansa had been stupid, so stupid and ignorant. She had wished upon the weirwood tree and prayed in the Sept for her own fairytale to come true. What would happen if that fairytale had come to be? Torture, rape, never-ending cycle of varying abuse. The darkest kind of tale. Not that the tale of her current reality wasn’t dark; it was, pretty bleak and grim, trapping her inside it. However, it had some flickers of light, some grains of hope; they would probably be gone had she been subjected to the ultimate breaking of her body and soul, nevermind from whose hands.

Joffrey. Petyr. Ramsay. Roose. Was she a magnet for the worst kind of twisted, evil people? She truly had to enrage someone - or the gods - in her previous life for the fate to treat her so cruelly. Maybe that was the truth of her fairytale. Maybe that was her fate. Those stories she loved as a child had become a distorted, sad reflection of her reality once she grew up, and could turn into a tragedy by the end of her life if she retained her belief in them. She had to write her own story, and make it worth living.

Pushing the thoughts aside, she ordered her guards to distribute the books to their destined locations, remaining with a single soldier in the cold chamber. The wind blew inside through the hole in the roof, making her hair swirl, giving her lungs the breath of air and reminding her she had a lot of reasons to live, and to fight for what was hers. She remembered her first visit to the library, which somehow seemed like a lifetime ago, even though it had barely been a few weeks. On the outside, probably not much had changed, but inside a lot of things inside her had already transformed into something else entirely, and she felt stronger, even more determined than before. Neither Roose nor Ramsay had broken her spirit; on the contrary, the way she was able to stand up to both of them and claim her demands proved her she was far from being broken. She will triumph.

But now, to the North and her duties, she reminded herself. Her work here was not a job for one person only. There should have been people dealing with fractions of what she had been appointed with. Maybe she could create appropriate positions if they didn't exist now? Or manage to pass some of her duties onto the Maester? She shouldn’t be doing all of that alone, and she most assuredly will have it voiced.

The fields of white on the other side of the window called to her, and she approached it to gaze at her lands. Winter was already upon them, and the Long Night with everything dark and twisted was treading in its wake. She will do everything in her power to make the North survive it, even if it would be the death of her. 

It was her priority, even if she would have to sell her soul to the evil incarnate.

It was already dark when she returned to her chambers, tired from the excess of thoughts and emotions, and the lack of sleep the other night. Today was also one of the days when her verbal exchange with her husband had been the longest, and it was mentally draining as well. She had enough of him for the day, and hoped for a peaceful night, though severely doubted she would get one. Her body and mind were tired, and her exhaustion crafted a new thought - what would happen, was she to refuse him? Not because of a whim or not wishing to “fulfill her duty as a wife”, but for the tiredness alone. Would he even care? He was a human being after all, though there had been moments she wasn't entirely sure about it; he should understand the body sometimes gave way.

On their wedding night, he had promised her he wouldn’t hurt her as long as she knew her duties. What would one refusal mean? Was she ready to risk it all to find it out?

The knock at the door brought her the answer: she wasn’t. Not yet, at least.

Sighing, she put on a mask of neutrality and stood up to open the door. Seeing Roose on the threshold made her reconsider her previous conclusion: she definitely wasn’t in the mood for marital activities, and she was brave enough to admit to it aloud. She was his lady wife, not a common whore.

“You look tired, my lady,” he noticed immediately; her lack of sleep had to show.

“Because I am,” she answered, leaning her head against the door frame in a familial gesture. “I didn't have much sleep last night.”

He nodded in acknowledgment while Sansa wondered if she should explicitly ask him to go or maybe he already understood the true meaning behind her words.

“I have a gift for you.” He was the first to break the silence. She gazed up at him, surprised, as he retrieved a small bundle from underneath his fur and handed it to her.

After unwrapping the leather it was covered with, Sansa’s eyes gazed upon a metal clasp for securing a fur, something he had promised her this morning. Much to her surprise, it didn’t consist of the flayed man alone. Round at the base, with a Bolton sigil in the middle and enough space between the arms of the cross to fit four small wolves. The flayed man was of course victorious over the little animal heads, but the sight of the Stark sigil made her heart feel warmer despite reason. It also perfectly fitted her new dress in connecting both of her current houses.

Did he want to corrupt her, make her trust him through such small gestures of kindness? Probably, his game so similar to her own. He will fail in it without a doubt; however, she couldn’t deny that was the kind of nice touch she had not expected.

She will play this game of his. She might even learn to enjoy it, without ever losing her ultimate goal from her sight, of course.

“Thank you.” She peered up at him from the item and smiled, and that might have been the most truthful and natural smile she had ever graced him with. “I truly appreciate it."

A slight movement of his head was the only answer she received.

“Sleep well, lady Sansa.”

And then he bowed and walked away, leaving her in the open door, staring in his wake, her name resonating in her head.

Lord Bolton had a few intimidating features in him; not only the obvious, terrifying facts like flaying people alive, cruel tortures and backstabbing - those were with her every waking hour of her days, impossible to forget. The small things were more treacherous as they had always thrown her out of her composure, threatening to engulf her whole without a word of warning. His stoic, cold demeanor making her uneasy and unsure of her ground. His pale, expressionless eyes, seeing right through her soul, reading her every dark thought. And his voice, always calm and emotionless, never raised but still perfectly capable of inducing terror; soft and deep, in other circumstances could border on addictive. The way her name had sounded on his lips barely seconds ago... She hated to admit it, but it sent shivers down her spine. Shivers that were everything but fear.

Sansa shut the door behind her, leaning against the wooden surface and focusing on her breathing alone. The metal clasp held tightly in her grasp, the cross digging into her palm, engraving itself on her skin, on her soul.

“Stop it,” she murmured to herself, shaking her head. She remembered the first and only time she had allowed herself to get lost in his eyes - that had been during their wedding, and she had sworn to never let that happen again. The same had to apply to his voice from now on - it won’t have any effect on her. It couldn’t.

Why hadn't it made such an impression up until now? She blamed it on her exhaustion and a false sense of safety her new guards and Ramsay’s departure had lulled her into. It was also one of the few times he had used her given name, that “Sansa” rolling off his tongue in an almost sensual way, arousing her senses. There was something unholy, something forbidden in the way her name sounded on his lips. Another chill ran down her spine when she thought what that voice could do to her if he was ever to lose the "lady" before it. Only her name would remain, raw and right there for the taking. She shivered in horror. That could be one of his powers over her, and just like with every other she would have to do her best to resist it. 

What also frustrated her was a fact she still didn't know for certain if she could safely refuse him.  _ He  _ had noticed she was tired,  _ he  _ had bid her farewell. There was no verbal and conscious refusal on her part, only a confession of being tired.

Huffing with irritation she finally abandoned her position at the door and put the clasp on the table. Her hand bore traces the metal cross had imprinted upon it; she stared down at it, the lines glaring back at her, burning her soul.

Perfect Lady Bolton, aye?

Not wishing to dwell on it even a second longer she quickly changed her clothing and went to sleep. The sweet oblivion came quickly, embracing her tired body and mind.

His voice followed her into the night, however, haunting her dreams.

_ Lady Sansa.  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I couldn't resist mentioning THE VOICE, because how could I? :giggles: We're slowly heading towards the smutty phase of part one, and I have to admit I'm excited about it!


	9. My Lips Are Sealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's short, but look how quickly I managed to publish it! *proud of myself* I really struggled with editing this time, so forgive me for mistakes or repetitions! 
> 
> Enjoy and tell me your thoughts! Hope you're all safe and healthy in these crazy times!

It was a good night’s sleep, though Sansa awoke to Roose's voice in her ears, and it made her first waking moments rather dire. Staring into the void around her she breathed heavily, checking if she was still alone in the room. Maybe he had come back and taken advantage of her while she had been sleeping?

Nothing seemed like it, except for this dreadfully haunting voice of his, and somehow, she couldn’t get rid of it, no matter how hard she tried. Groaning, she covered her face with a pillow in a futile attempt to block the stimuli from the outside world. There was a new day ahead, new tasks she will have to face, requiring her undivided attention. She needed to focus, and suppress that power of his over her.

The greeting she received at the breakfast made her change her mind - she wouldn’t be able to suppress it. She will just have to get used to it. 

Her new study was adjacent to Roose’s - a small chamber with a few chairs, a desk, the books she had sent here the day before, and a hearth. Sansa couldn't recall who it belonged to back in the days, so she decided to give it a fresh start and make her own memories instead. 

However, she already knew that if she was going to spend even some of her working hours inside this chamber alone, reading, thinking, and planning, she would go insane pretty quickly. She had been surrounded by people almost all the time during her work before, but they had been just the executors of her plans, without any say in what they were doing. And what she needed were advisors, skilled men with a voice of their own. 

There was quite a good excuse to march into Roose’s study and demand appointing some people to help her. Or at least request to have the maester at her side at all times, and not only when she stumbled upon a problem she couldn't solve on her own.

She sat down at the desk and quickly found some parchments and a quill with ink - she had letters to write. Notices for a few small families she had never even met with an announcement the Warden and Wardeness of the North were going to pay them a visit.

Something that seemed an easy task at first, turned out to be much more complicated than she had initially thought. The appropriate words didn’t want to come, the blank parchment laughing at her. Maybe the idea was in fact ridiculous enough that even her fingers refused to write the right letters, knowing better than her how it truly sounded.

Finally, the first drop of ink fell onto the paper from her reluctant quill. She thanked the families for their responses and being open-minded regarding the cooperation, asked about any problems, and assured them of the willingness of House Bolton to help, with the Lord and Lady of Winterfell themselves wishing to personally lend them a hand. Sansa ended the letter with a signature, and only then thought twice about what she had actually written.

_Sansa Stark_ , read the name at the bottom of the parchment.

She stared at the letters long enough for them to fuse into one. _Sansa Stark_ , that was the essence of her, that was who she was and will always remain. But for the time being, she had to betray that name and everything it stood for. Hopefully, with the right amount of luck and determination, it would only be temporary.

Her shaking hand added another house name, and her eyes fastened on the hostile blend that had just been brought to life, her fingers involuntarily grasping her new clasp, representing the very same atrocity.

_Sansa Stark Bolton._

A distorted monster, staring at her from the paper. The monster she had to become in order to achieve what she wanted.

She might have phrased it differently, but any other option seemed even worse. Sansa Bolton of House Stark? No, for the Northern lords to follow she had to remain Sansa Stark, despite everything. And she most definitely was not Sansa Stark of House Bolton; the way she had put it turned out to be the only proper one. 

Forcing herself to look away from the words that burnt her soul she copied the letter a few times, neatly folded the papers, and stood up, the excuse to visit Roose’s study now in her hands.

She left her study and promptly knocked on his door. Then, without waiting for an invitation, she walked inside, finding Roose focused on the map spread on his desk, small figures in shapes of various sigils scattered all over it.

He gazed up at her as she entered the chamber and slowly folded the map, little pawns falling onto the wooden surface with a quiet thump. Was there something he didn’t want her to see? Or maybe it was only an act to show her she wouldn’t have access to all the information because she wasn’t the one in power?

Whatever the cause, she wasn’t going to ask about it, not now at least. She had other concerns in mind for the time being.

“The letters, my lord.” She handed him the missives and waited as his eyes skipped through them. His gaze lingered on her signature for a few seconds, her breath hitching as she prepared to defend her choice. But then he took a quill and put his name underneath hers.

“You may have these sent.” He gave her the parchments back and she nodded in acquiescence but did not retreat. There was this other issue she wanted to address.

“I have a request of my own,” she started, her eyes searching for his gaze, ready to withstand those piercing irises of his. As he looked up at her, he seemed somewhat distracted and tired, two things she had never noticed before. It wasn't something catching the eye at first sight, but she had his passive features memorized enough to notice some changes. It caught her off guard for two reasons. One, it meant he was a human being, after all, possessing at least some human weaknesses. Two, she might not be as bad in reading him as she had previously thought. Apparently, she had spent enough time with him to improve her perception. It would most certainly prove useful in the future. 

Maybe it wasn’t the perfect time to be making requests, but she decided to follow it through either way. 

“I’d like to appoint some people to aid me in my work.”

As he stared back at her she noticed dark circles underneath his eyes, not without a hint of satisfaction.

“No.” The answer took her aback; she did not expect such a direct refusal. Her eyes flickered with anger, but before she could inquire about a reason, he continued, “When you appoint people to work you usually have to pay them, so they would actually do their job. We don’t have enough money to follow all of your plans. It’s either food, men, or your aid.”

She stared back at him in silent defiance. There was logic to his words she could not deny, no matter how hard she would try. Still, she suspected he just wanted to keep her extremely busy and people-less, so she wouldn’t plot anything unbeneficial for his house. She couldn’t confront him about it, could she?

“I need someone,” she insisted further regardless. “At least allow me to use the maester on a daily basis, he’s already working for us.”

“Fine. Use Wolkan however you please. No one else.”

“Thank you.” She managed to remain calm, though inside she was blazing with anger. Without more words she left his study and walked to the maester, quieting her emotions along the road. How could she be a Wardeness of the North without any aid? If she was an experienced lady, truly knowing what she was doing, maybe there wouldn’t be much of a problem. But she still didn’t know so much, and although she was trying her best she continued to feel unsure in so many areas.

Wolkan had assisted her before and she felt their cooperation would be truly beneficial for the future of the North. Having him around whenever she pleased could make every task so much easier, resulting in her growing wiser as well. Additionally, he was a rather positive figure - there was something appealing in him, a lot of signs indicating a good heart. He couldn’t be blamed for the crimes of the house he was serving. Sansa could only imagine what atrocities he had to witness being around the Boltons - Ramsay especially - for so many years, and that notion made her feel sorry for him.

She found him in his chambers over a book; apparently, there was not much to do for him now when she had basically taken over every possible duty. She greeted him kindly and offered a place at her side in her study, begging him in her mind to accept.

She didn’t have to ask twice: the proposition made his face lighten and he immediately agreed. The enthusiasm was rather understandable - Sansa might have been the first person around him in ages showing any sign of kindness.

The rest of the day passed at listening and working: they returned to her new study and then - in the company of one guard while the other two remained outside - she asked the maester to tell her about things she still didn’t know much about, like the military issues. Her mind devoured every new information, processing them swiftly, and demanding to know more and more until she would understand it all. Those were probably things Maester Luwin had taught her brothers, not intended for young girls’ ears. But the times had changed, and she needed that knowledge, in case she would have to use it against Roose one day, or when she would rule the North in her own name.

The hours went by quicker than any other - maybe because listening to another human being who was capable of producing real emotions felt good and refreshing, or maybe simply because the winter sun was losing its battles with the moon sooner with every passing day. Regardless of the reason, Sansa returned to her chamber with a sense of completion, of being on the right path. She made a deal with Wolkan to divide their work the next day and create some concrete plans regarding the Essos trade now that they had lord Manderly’s agreement. It felt good and she found herself smiling at the thought.

The knock at the door startled her; for the first time in weeks, she had been so engrossed in something she had basically forgotten she was a woman wed, not to mention her nightly duties. Also, she was surprised Roose would visit her this night, considering the tiredness she had sensed in him earlier that day. Were their physical encounters soothing for his mind and body?

“Come in,” she answered, discovering her own mind and body were enough at peace to be rather... anxiously excited? That would probably be the best term to describe it, though it made her cheeks burn.

She should be angry at him for today’s refusal, but the nights weren’t for minds or conscious emotions, were they? It was better and far easier to surrender to the body and its sensations, especially now, considering her peculiarly high spirits. 

Roose came inside and closed the door behind him while she wordlessly stood up and started unclasping her cloak. No words were needed.

When her fingers reached for the laces of her gown he stopped her, much to her surprise.

“Don’t.”

She gazed up at him, stiffening immediately. Maybe the thing that could bring his mind peace wasn’t their usual encounter, but rather violence? Or maybe he was going to make her pay for what hadn’t happened the day before?

He watched her for a moment as she stared back at him, her chest heaving with accelerated breathing.

“Allow me.”

_Allow him_ what? At first, the meaning was lost on her and she frowned, waiting for him to elaborate on that. He did no such thing.

Finally, it dawned on her.

“O-oh,” slipped out of her mouth at the realization and she felt her cheeks turning even redder. New situations in the dimness of the night would probably always make her uncomfortable at first, but she did her best to relax. 

Turning her back to him, she let her arms slowly fall down her sides. As she forced herself to breathe, she heard him moving closer until she could feel him standing right behind her. He started unlacing her gown, unhurriedly yet decidedly, string by string. Soon all parts of her garment landed in a pile at her feet and she stood naked, her back turned to him, not daring to move, focusing on breathing alone. His knuckles made their way down her back in a gentle caress; his touch on her bare skin made her shiver involuntarily. Not that it was uncomfortable - on the contrary, the gentleness of it was making her uneasy, for it was _far_ from being uncomfortable. To her dismay, she wanted him to touch her, as the fire between her legs already lightened up.

She felt his breath on her nape and before she could even think twice his lips planted a kiss there while his fingers still caressed her skin. A soft moan escaped her as she arched her neck, giving in to the sensations. He kissed her all the way down her spine, the pressure in her insides steadily growing. There was, however, a trace of anxiety left in her, as it somehow felt... different, and she was unsure what would come next. Did... did he want to take her from behind? It would definitely make her goal of not looking at him easier, but in her mind, it seemed very unlady-like and debasing. Once again she thought she wasn't his whore, she was his lady. She should have a say in such matters, shouldn't she?

That particular anxiety vanished and another one appeared as he swirled her around, putting her hair out of the way. He paused before her, looking at her like he... admired her? Or maybe he was just analyzing all the places he hadn't touched yet, like her breasts, or her lips. Her breath hitched as his eyes lingered on her mouth way longer than they should have. Did he intend to kiss her?

She cringed internally, and something of that must have seeped into her eyes because he suddenly seemed to change his intentions. The atmosphere was back to their usual one as he gently but decidedly pushed her towards the bed, his eyes altering their course.

She didn't want him to kiss her. What was between her legs was a part of her duty, and her womb was his to fill, but her lips were only and entirely hers, and they were sealed. Silly as it sounded even in her own head, it seemed like the kind of barrier she didn't want to break. This one thing she would have only for herself. Maybe she will be forced to break this rule one day, but it wasn't this moment. For now, her lips remained in her control.

He didn't aid her in her pleasure anymore today, ultimately leaving her unsatisfied. She wasn't certain whether it was for the slight denial he had found in her eyes, just to punish her, or for the tension she could sense in his body with his every move. The whole thing was way sloppier than usual, and more than ever it felt like he was holding a lot of possibilities from her, intentionally. Had she just lost her chance to take a step further into their "relationship"? Maybe if she had allowed him to kiss her... but she didn't want it, no. Definitely not.

He left her still burning on her bed, disheveled but not brought to the edge even once. She didn't feel like his lady wife at all that night.

Once alone, she wriggled in frustration, wishing the fire to go away or erupt on its own. As it kept bothering her she finally groaned and begrudgingly moved her hand to where she needed it the most, quickly forgetting about any reservations when her mind gave way to pure pleasure.

They won't have it this way, though. _She_ was supposed to beguile him through pleasure, not the other way around; it seemed he used the act in a similar manner she wanted to, as she realized just now. Her inexperience was in his favor - she still did not know her body or the reactions it might provide, not to mention his. Even though she had been a wife for weeks now, those matters weren’t much closer to her than they had been during her wedding night. Yes, she knew now what pleasure felt like, how she could forget the world outside when those lips and fingers - unnamed, as always - were bringing her to the edge. Barely moments ago she had also got to experience how it was to be denied the pleasure and left highly frustrated at that fact - something she most certainly did not appreciate. But there had to be much more than that, countless possibilities to discover. Possibilities that wouldn’t engage her mouth, letting it remain an unchartered territory. Possibilities he was keeping from her on purpose. 

She had been so occupied by the Northern matters, politics, and Winter she had neglected the physical part of her plan. This had to change, finally transforming into her power over him. The timing seemed perfect, as the idea no longer disgusted her, and despite everything, she felt positively secured in other areas to fully embrace this task.

With that in mind, she decided she will become the active part the next time he would come to her, and she will show him what she was capable of. Even though she did not know that herself.


	10. Through Pain and Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter, in which Sansa suffers from an ailment and does some research. I am rather satisfied with how this one turned out! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and share your thoughts with me! Love ya!

The morning came rather quickly and unexpectedly; Sansa felt like she hadn’t slept at all, tired and heavy. The sun pierced through the windows, making her wince. Waking up somehow turned out to be painful - her head pounded in a dull ache, her jaw clenching in response. She could feel and sense the rush of blood in her ears as she tightly closed her eyes and folded herself in two to wait out the pain. It didn’t want to go away, though. Additionally, she felt a tight knot growing in her stomach, the kind she couldn’t fully comprehend - it might be hunger, but also nausea. Either way, she needed food.

Standing up made her feel dizzy and she almost stumbled, falling backward onto the bed instead. The left side of her head was on fire, the world dancing before her eyes, her stomach both excruciatingly empty and too full at the same time. Somehow she managed to reach the door on the second attempt and ask for her handmaiden. The woman came quickly and handled her chores with no participation from Sansa whatsoever. The maid inquired hesitantly whether her lady felt all right; her lady only mumbled she did not.

If it wasn’t for the hunger-like feeling in her belly Sansa would stay where she was, but she needed food. The notion of someone else bringing it to her became lost in the overwhelming pain clouding her mind. 

The Great Hall seemed miles away - the pounding in her head only grew and the light hurt her eyes, making the road difficult. Slowly, she made her way to the chamber, moving her hand over the stones for support, followed by her guards on either side of her, ready to catch her was she to fall. 

After an eternity of torture, Sansa managed to reach her usual chair in one piece and, without any word of greeting or as much as a bow, collapsed onto the furniture like a rag doll, her eyes down, fastened on whatever there was in front of them at the moment.

“You look rather unwell, my lady,” Roose noticed immediately. She heard him like through the mist, and when she looked up she discovered her vision was also slightly blurred.

“I am feeling rather unwell,” she murmured. The headache grew and grew, quickly becoming the strongest she had ever experienced. She felt confined to her chair, unable to move without the world spinning around in a wild whirl.

“Shall I send for the maester?” His voice echoed in her head and she wished he would just stop talking, and for the world to go still in its silence.

She shook her head, believing it would be better than having to utter a response. It wasn’t; the world spun violently around and she gripped hard onto the edge of the table in a desperate attempt to stop it.

“I’ll eat and recline in my chamber to rest,” she muttered, her eyes focusing on the plate before her. Food. She had wanted food, hadn't she? Now it looked rather... appalling.

It probably wasn’t hunger after all.

“O-or not,” she stuttered, doing her best to stop her insides from finding their way out of her body, nausea overwhelming her.

“Escort lady Sansa back to her room.” She heard, but no longer saw as she closed her eyes tightly and tried to breathe steadily through the nostrils to calm her raging body.

She felt someone lifting her from the chair, her arms thrown around two people as she forced her legs to follow them. The pain in her head hammered, pounded, pierced; it seemed too much, enough to tear her to pieces.

Next thing she knew, she was lying in her bed, something wet and cold on her forehead, nausea overcoming her to the point she could no longer control it. Her stomach contracted and when she started throwing up, it continued for the whole day. People were coming and going, exchanging the wet rags on her forehead and the bucket into which her insides spilled; apart from noting those facts, she remained mostly unresponsive. Her world got limited to the steady pounding in her head and the waves of nausea returning in steady intervals. She tried to get some sleep, but the desired rest just didn’t want to come, and so she floated on the border of consciousness, unable to fall asleep, unable to function. Someone might have covered the windows, or maybe it was already dark outside, she had no idea - the only thing she knew was that once there was a light, hurting her eyes, and then there wasn’t.

Her mind projected some images from a lifetime ago - a little red-haired girl, struck with cold, curled up on the bed, in need of comfort. Someone’s arms were wrapped around her as they held her in a tight embrace, making her feel better. Was it mother? Or maybe her older brother? She didn’t know, she didn’t remember; maybe it wasn’t even a memory, but a creation of her imagination, so her spirits could improve. But it only made her feel worse - there was no one around to hug her, to bring her comfort or peace. Maybe there never had been. Even before, in this other lifetime that seemed like a dream, she had been no one’s favorite child. Mother’s was Robb or Bran, she wasn’t sure; father’s was Arya, undoubtedly. Maybe she had always been alone. Maybe her family, everything that was perceived as a pleasant memory was just an illusion of her tired, suffering mind to brighten her days against the darkness and numbness of reality, a sweet lie she was telling to lure herself into thinking life had been good once and could become like that again.

Nothing more but a lie. 

Hours had passed, and finally, Sansa managed to drift into sleep, repeatedly waking up in a cold sweat, her head pounding, her throat sore and aflame. But every single time the pain was lesser until it transformed into a well-known, dull headache, something she could tolerate.

The next rays of the morning sun didn’t hurt her as much as before; they weren’t exactly pleasant, but she only narrowed her eyes against them, without flinching in pain. The headache was still present, though it was nothing compared to that overwhelming agony that had taken her senses away. Was it the following day already? Or maybe it had lasted hours at best, stretched by the pain and her unresponsiveness to what seemed like an eternity?

“How are you feeling, my lady?”

She would startle if she had any strength to do so; instead, she just slowly turned her head, careful not to do that too quickly.

Maester Wolkan stood at the foot of the bed, looking at her with a gentle smile. She suspected he had been here the whole night, checking on her well-being.

“Is the pain any better? Do you need anything?”

Did she? She had no idea, and for a while just stared at him, the room still slightly too bright for her liking. It was cold even though she was covered in sweat; she felt dreadfully tired even though she had slumbered the last few hours at the very least.

“No, thank you.” She slowly shook her head. Maybe “food” was the right answer, but she feared that anything she would swallow would be returned immediately. She was hungry, even morbidly so, but didn’t want to risk it so soon. “I… I feel much better now. What was that?”

“Mygrayn, my lady. You’ve been stressing yourself too much. You’ll be fine.”

_ Stressing herself too much _ ? She almost scoffed at that. Her life had been a constant wave of stress for the last few years; that tension seemed a pivotal part of it, engraved into it irrevocably.

"Unless you've been suffering from other ailments…?" 

Sansa shook her head absent-mindedly - she couldn't recall anything else bothering her, but her mind wasn't in its right state, tiredness taking over her. She wanted to sleep, the kind of fruitful sleep she hadn’t got that night. If he would just go away, maybe alone she would be able to...

The door opened, and although she didn’t see who came inside she guessed that immediately through the way Wolkan straightened up, his whole frame tensing.

“Lady Sansa needs to rest, my lord,” the maester announced and she wanted to laugh suddenly at the tense silence that followed. What was Wolkan even thinking? Clearly, she was in no condition to do anything else rather than resting, and Roose wouldn’t use her like that, she knew that much.

But... no one else did, didn’t they? The thought struck her like a lightning: the only people who knew that he was actually gentle to his wife and even considerate towards her physical needs - at least on most occasions - were just them, husband and wife. What other people saw were appearances, what they heard were her cries that actually might have meant a lot of things.

It suddenly seemed like Roose Bolton’s secret only she was aware of.

“I can see that.” His voice was colder than usual, more on the edge. Sansa forced herself to turn her head to gaze up at him. He noticed her efforts and moved closer to the bed. “I’ve brought you some meal, my lady.”

Her handmaiden appeared behind him with a tray of food in her hands. She left it on the bed and quickly scurried away.

“Thank you,” Sansa murmured, wondering whether he had at least a grain of caring for her. In a twisted, political way, he had to care: was she to die now, as his wife, under his protection, there would be nothing he could do to stop the North from rebelling against him. Especially considering her newest discovery of their own secret - no one as far had seen his fair treatment of her, and her death or severe illness would ring suspicious, threatening to destroy his house once and for all. He needed her alive and well, now even more than ever. Her power here was evident; she had to think it through carefully - how could she use it to her advantage?

Now wasn’t probably the best time to mull over it, however.

“I’ll try to eat later.” Her voice was hoarse, her mouth dry. “I feel better now, I just need to sleep it off,” she informed him in case he was interested, forcing her lips to create a small, weary smile.

He nodded, acknowledging her words.

“Rest as much as you need to. I’ll leave you to it.” He bowed and left, and she thought she was grateful he had come. She would somehow feel worse if he hadn’t.

She looked up at Wolkan and smiled at him.

“Thank you for your assistance, maester. I think I can fare on my own now.”

“Of course, my lady.” Wolkan nodded, smiled at her, and moved hurriedly towards the door. “I’ll be nearby if you would require my services.”

And then she was left alone, her blood pulsing in the same rhythm as the dull pounding in her head. Her mind was filled with thoughts, but she deliberately pushed them aside, covered herself tightly with furs, and closed her eyes, chasing the sleep she couldn’t have truly achieved probably the whole week.

It came at last, bringing her the best kind of dreams - the sweetness of oblivion.

Waking up sometime later, Sansa felt much better. The pain was reduced to the slight flickering in the back of her head, the world stood still, while her stomach...

Well. It probably demanded food, but not necessarily. She wasn’t quite sure where her current appetite was exactly - the idea of having a meal landed somewhere between "appealing" and "appalling". 

After a few minutes of wondering whether she should move, she managed to sit up, waiting for the world to start spinning again. Luckily, it didn’t.

As suspected, the food on her bed looked both delicious and revolting; she forced herself to take one hesitant bite either way. Her throat burnt from vomiting, and there was still an unpleasant taste of bile left in her mouth, but she managed to swallow the piece and it remained in its designated place. Emboldened, she slowly started eating further until there was nothing left on the plate. Though it wasn’t much, she already felt bloated and lay down again to prevent her stomach from rebelling.

The ceiling wasn’t the most engaging thing to stare at, so she turned around, facing the hearth this time, thinking about the revelation she had had upon experiencing Roose and Wolkan’s confrontation. Her value in the North, especially in a fairly decent state, was undoubtedly of great importance. Until the Northmen saw with their own eyes or heard from someone they trusted, the Stark heir fared well, they wouldn’t believe it. Or maybe they wouldn’t believe it even then, their mistrust towards the Boltons too severe to be overlooked.

If there ever came a day she would find herself with a babe, what would they possibly think? Probably that she had been taken against her will, raped, and abused. They would feel sorry for their poor lady Stark. They would pity her.

She didn’t want their pity. They will never truly respect her if they followed her or saved her out of pity. Pity didn’t evoke reverence or power: it could only make them see her as weak, as a victim, not a leader.

She wasn’t weak. And she most definitely was not a victim any longer.

Suddenly fuming, she sat on the bed once again. They had to see and believe she truly was the Wardeness of the North, not a “passive bystander” to the tragedies taking place all around her. Not the Warden of the North’s wife, but the Wardeness in her own right.

They needed to see she was her husband’s equal. For that, she had to become her husband’s equal and live up to it. Through knowledge, through perseverance, and through the bedchamber.

She knew how exactly she was going to spend the remaining hours of the day. Under her bed, stashed carefully for no eye to see, were the books she had ordered her guards to carry from the library. Most of them were innocent and had served to disguise the true content of the other ones that were... not so pure.

With the crimson of shame already crawling up her cheeks, she slowly left the bed and crouched on the floor to retrieve the books. A single glimpse at their worn covers was enough to know which one will be her ultimate pick.

The book firmly in her grasp, Sansa returned to the bed, lying down on her side and covering herself with a fur - if anyone came in unannounced, she would be able to hide the shameless object underneath the material. Never before in her chaste life would she have thought there could be books on  _ the matter _ within Winterfell walls. Some things had been shameful to think about, unfathomable to discuss in speech; writing and reading about them seemed to constitute an entirely different level of unholiness. Though she had seen and heard a lot in King's Landing, spent long moons in the company of the brothels' keeper, and was growing slowly comfortable with the idea of the act itself, her thoughts still weren't devoid of judgments and moral learnings from the Septa. Such conceptions would have to die out entirely before she could move on with her plan. It wasn’t easy to transform her entire set of beliefs on the topic and her approach to a body’s needs, even despite everything that had already happened. It had to take time, and just recently her mind had started to open up for it all, as she had realized the last time Roose had visited her before her mygrayn. Her plan demanded more from her, but she also couldn’t deny that her body craved more as well. It wished to discover what it was exactly that he was hiding from her, what could be changed from both sides to fulfill those yearnings she hadn't even known she possessed.

On the second look, the book turned out to be some kind of a journal, written by a traveler who “tasted a lot of women” in his long and eventful life, and he decided to share his experiences, reporting his adventures using both words and drawings. Sansa felt even the tips of her ears burning when she saw the first hurriedly drawn picture. It could have been a manual for whores, if only they were literate. With proper imagination, though, the slightly blurry drawings could be enough to understand the meaning.

The sheer ideas of some... positions made her grimace in distaste. She felt like her mouth got violated by the reading alone. Her lips... in places... She shuddered at the thought, nausea threatening to overcome her once again. She managed to calm her stomach and looked further into that peculiar account of events. The majority of what she saw was really unlady-like, putting the female part in the most humiliating and degrading situations. Some elements made Sansa wonder how exactly the human body could be so flexible, or endure so much. There were other ones, however, that got her attention.

Her cheeks burnt wildly, her heart speeding as the already known heat appeared between her legs. Reading further, her soul aflame from shame at the words that were used there, she found a need for some friction as the fire only grew, but forced her legs to remain where they were.

It was a man’s journal, written most assuredly for men; there was almost no place for a woman's pleasure. Sansa frowned, thinking, her perceptions changing. She had always known she had been treated well in the darkness of the night, but only now did she realize how well exactly. Almost every single one of their encounters began with Roose bringing her pleasure; the only time she had been left entirely unsatisfied happened two days prior and considering the frequency of his visits one time meant almost nothing. As far, she hadn’t also been forced to do anything she didn’t give her consent to. Satisfied, content Stark meant satisfied North, sure, but as she had already established no one would ever know what was happening between the closed doors of her bedchamber. She was now positively convinced his goal was to win her over by bringing her pleasures.

Despite the book being mostly about the sources of man's enjoyments, Sansa also realized which parts of the pleasures Roose might have been withholding from her, and she could  _ feel  _ it in her body. Her breasts suddenly wanted to be touched, possibly even kissed and devoured. Maybe... maybe one day she’ll ask for it, as a bold part of her game.

Once during her reading, there was a knock at the door; frantically hiding the book under the covers, Sansa prayed for it to be Wolkan and not Roose. Luckily, the gods listened to her this one time. The maester noticed she was unusually flushed, and voiced his concern about a possible fever; she managed to appease him, so he could leave the chamber as soon as possible. Alone again, she breathed through her mouth, trying to slow down her speeding heart. She didn’t want anyone to discover things she had been reading and what it did to her body - her cheeks scarlet, her skin on fire, her small clothes dampened by her desire. Ladies definitely didn’t behave like that, didn’t lose control in such a way.

Deciding she had already seen enough, Sansa chose something for herself and, though the feeling of shame didn’t want to entirely leave her, planned her future steps accordingly. She altered her past resolutions a bit - there were still some discoveries to do before taking the initiative, plus, she had to feel better both with her current condition and with her body in general. But it was a good place to start.

She hid the book even further under the bed, to be more certain no one would ever find it. It should remain there if she ever felt the need to seek the new… ideas. She wondered how something like that had made its way to Winterfell’s library. Of course, men had their needs, but... The idea of her parents doing anything of the kind made her nauseated again. Their marriage had resulted in five children, so they had to do  _ something _ ... but the thought seemed more disturbing than everything else Sansa had imagined this day.

Pushing it quickly away she lay down, staring at the flames, mulling over her life and various lessons people had taught her on the road to the place she was now, willingly or not. The crackling from the hearth quietened her mind as the tiredness embraced her once again, and soon she drifted away into a peaceful dream filled with elusive pleasures, just out of her reach. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Sansa makes her move!


	11. By All Means

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, Sansa makes her move - meaning we are entering the smutty part! The chapter changed a lot in comparison to its initial draft; it always surprises me how much this story evolves between the moment of writing to the moment of publishing. Hopefully, it is for the better!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Remember to take care of yourself in this mad world!

In the following days, mygrayn didn’t reappear, although Sansa could still experience some of its effects: she was more tired than usual and occasionally nauseated. It didn’t stop her from making her plans with the maester real. Working with someone felt refreshing: his knowledge was deeply needed and she felt wiser and smarter with every passing day.

There were still no final answers from the small houses she had sent ravens to, but she didn’t feel discouraged. No wonder they needed time to process the offer and weigh the possible benefits against the risks of allowing the Boltons into their households.

The first answer arrived in a fortnight - a letter from Ser Osbern. He was a landed knight, granted a small keep a few-days ride from Winterfell for his loyalty and achievements on a battlefield. The knights were rare to come upon in the North, but there were a few exceptions. Though his missive was still reluctant in tone, he wrote about much-needed help with his crops, rebuilding his keep in face of Winter, and lifting the morale of his people regarding the coming wars. He “cordially” invited lady Stark to his household; Sansa felt a sting of uncertainty at the words. She was being addressed as lady Stark, not lady Bolton, and there was no mention of Roose. Of course, the man knew she wouldn’t be traveling alone, as she had made herself quite clear in her letter, but that was not the point: she feared her husband’s reaction at the fact of being entirely omitted from the invitation. Maybe she could tell him the news without having to show him the answer?

Apparently, she wasn't alone in her concerns - upon reading the letter Wolkan looked at her solemnly, and she knew they understood each other wordlessly. Folding the parchment in her hands, she took a deep breath and ventured to Roose’s study, holding the missive the way it would remain hidden from her husband's view.

Much to her distaste, he wanted to see it for himself. Of course he did; otherwise, it would mean he trusted her, and that wasn’t a possible option. Did he even believe in the existence of trust between two separate individuals?

She watched him carefully as he read the missive, her heart in her throat, cursing her inability to truly see through him. Never before had she met a person who would be such a closed book.

“We'll travel on the morrow,” he announced without even a look at her face, handing her the parchment back. She donned a thankful smile nonetheless.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Her spirits were visibly elevated when she returned to Wolkan. The maester’s eyes shone in joy seeing her smile, and they both threw themselves into work with newly regained strength.

Sansa had no idea what to expect from these visits, but somehow she felt hopeful. Roose had promised her not to punish the lords for their previous disobedience, and she truly wanted to believe he could keep his word. Otherwise, she will be the reason for the Northmen’s misery, and she doubted she would be able to stand it. Maybe it was foolish on her part to believe anything he had said. However, there was no other choice for her but to believe.

She was in a good enough mood to put some of her other plans into practice the night before their departure.

Since her readings on the topic, she had tried her best to open her body to all the sensations it had been receiving and producing. Before the initiative, she had needed to become more aware of her reactions, of what was exactly going on during their encounters. She just needed to know. Without fear, she felt more, sensed more: like the scratching of his stubble on her thighs, his breath on her intimate parts that alone made her shiver, the occasional gentle caresses on her skin that his fingers seemed to be doing by accident. It all  _ felt.  _ It all  _ burnt  _ in this too-right-to-be-wrong or too-wrong-to-be-right way, she wasn’t certain which one. Without pain, she had managed to chase and reach her pleasure in time with him, sometimes even before, with his additional help or without it. Moreover, recently her sensations had started to become even more intense, just like her body had become highly sensitive for the reasons unknown to her. Without tension, she had started guessing his moods through the ways he claimed her, and the number of words they exchanged during his visits. There had been times it was barely "my lady" spoken once or twice, but also those when they actually exchanged some coherent sentences, on business, war, or Winter. Not yet pleasure, but she had to change that. He had never been rough with her, but if something went wrong in the wide world she had known that from the quicker, more impatient pace of his thrusts, and less attention to the pleasures themselves - it had been only business. Usually, though, it hadn't.

Most of the time she had undressed herself, without his assistance, some lost chance hanging in the air between them, heavy in her mind. She had to try all the more to overcome it.

Opening her body and becoming more aware of everything had forced her to look at him during the act. It had been difficult to avert her eyes from the hearth for the first time and stare at him, but she had managed to do so. Moreover, she had discovered that the sight they represented as he lapped at her folds, her thighs clenched around his head, was rather... arousing. Of course, he had noticed the change in her behavior and saw to it that his eyes never left hers whenever he was bringing her to the edge. As long as she consciously could do that before crumbling away, she stared right back at him, her chest heaving, her intimate parts completely at his mercy. It had been slightly more difficult to look at him during the other part. Once again, she had found it might be slightly easier if she allowed her mouth to join the play, but still refused to do so. She had seen his eyes slightly darkening, noticed his breath speeding, and witnessed as the pleasure changed his face into more... human. He was, all in all, just a man, with manly desires and needs.

Somehow, Sansa found all those observations rather fascinating. Despite not being able to decipher him during the day, she realized she could develop such skill during the night. Yes, her knowledge on this field was limited, but the actions, sensations, and emotions there were purely physical, therefore not as complicated or controlled. They were primal and untamed, coming and going as they pleased, easy to study, memorize, and copy if she ever felt the need to do so. She could tell herself her own part was all about pretending, but the truth was she did not fake anything in the darkness of the night. Her moans were her own, her pleasures truly wrecking over her with a force of thunder. There was no denying it. 

That night, she felt ready to take the next step, and her good mood could only facilitate it. Whatever would happen tomorrow, she will for sure leave the castle walls and venture into the snow. Even though she had been told repeatedly she wasn’t a prisoner, she definitely felt like one, suffocating at the fact she wasn’t allowed outside of Winterfell, and that apart from her chamber could never be alone. The journey would be beneficial for her body and soul alike, and maybe could even help her stomach get over whatever it was suffering from.

She was quite positive Roose would pay her a visit this night - they were venturing into the world the next day, so no encounters for them for days, or maybe even weeks to come.

She thought right, as soon after the darkness fell there was a knock at the door. Even though she was ready to act on her plans, the moment Roose entered her chamber her cheeks turned red. She wanted to be confident, pretending she knew what she was doing, even though she basically had no idea. The task would prove to be rather difficult, as the deep shame was still there, pestering her mind and hindering her actions. There was a nervous knot in her stomach, her throat becoming dry; but she could do it, she could conquer the shame and all the reservations and just act. 

She wouldn't be Sansa Stark if she didn't at least try. 

She stood up and faced him, her heart beating loudly somewhere in her throat, her cheeks painted a deep crimson; but she held her head high, and her eyes were strong, boring into his. There had to be a different aura around her because he stopped short before her, something in his glance changing.

“I’d like to try something else tonight.” Her voice was steady and confident, even though she felt as if Septa Mordane would come through the door any moment and berate her for even thinking that way, not to mention saying it aloud.

Roose didn’t react in any way, only watching her closely for a while. Sansa felt unease spreading throughout her; had her assumptions been wrong from the very start?

“By all means, my lady.”

Relief flooded her, but she did her best not to show it, nodding her head with the same unaffected expression instead. She was given a free hand to do what she wanted. Did she know  _ how _ she wanted it, though?

_ Trust your body,  _ she thought, trying to steady her breathing.  _ Trust your body and close your mind.  _ Simple as that. Why was she so nervous exactly? She knew how to proceed. If anything, it could be a new type of pleasure. So why fret about it if she could truly do what she wanted?

_ Breathe. _

“May you... lie down...?” Her voice was still steady, but she couldn't stop a trace of anxiety from seeping into her words. Saying that her cheeks were scarlet red would be a severe understatement, as she felt them burning much more than ever. No amount of confidence she could evoke would help her erase that flush; nonetheless, she wasn't going to let him see what was going on inside her. 

Something like a flicker of amusement found its way into his eyes; even though it momentarily enraged her, it was a good sign, meaning he didn’t suspect her of any foul play. Quite probably, internally he was mocking her for her slightly awkward attempts. She bit down on her indignation; she was trying her best to retain her dignity in a situation highly unfamiliar and thus uncomfortable. She was a lady, she hadn't been taught to fuck or seduce. She had always been meant to be a lord’s or a prince's obedient wife, and the lessons from her septa, severed so abruptly, had always claimed the ladies were to behave properly in their bedchambers. Well. It wasn’t in accordance with her plan, whatever proper ladies were doing during their private time with their husbands. Maybe she will never learn what it truly was or should be. In another life, she might have been someone’s obedient, patient, and kind wife, satisfied with her life as it would be.

But it wasn’t this life.

This life demanded to be bold. And if this was the easiest - though it was far from being easy - way to get in her husband’s good graces, then so be it. Whatever she would have to sacrifice to get what she wanted, she no longer cared. She will do whatever it took.

Roose shed his outer furs and did as he was told, awaiting her move. She didn’t undress as she was already wearing only her nightgown and nothing underneath it that could halt her movements. Her heart still beating wildly, she climbed onto the bed from its foot, sitting on her heels between her husband's legs. It felt highly peculiar to be in such a position, and she allowed herself to just stare at him for a moment, trying to make it look like a deliberate delay, almost a tease. He didn't make a move, patiently waiting for her next step, returning her gaze. 

What gave her more confidence was the fact she could be the master of the situation this way; she had never even imagined how much the power shifted depending on the position. Lying down, she felt like prey, giving up her body as an offering for him to take, to use as he pleased. Being the one on the opposite side made her feel stronger, surprisingly so. Despite her inexperience, she reveled in the sensation, wondering why she hadn't done it before. Her hands did not shake as she reached for the strings of his breeches; unlacing them one by one, she tried once again to close her mind and let the body take control. There was no place for the mind here; only the physical needs mattered, and that overwhelming power which threatened to intoxicate her with its raw strength.

How peculiar it was they had already done so much and she had seen so little of him, she mused absent-mindedly; it had been her own choice, though. When she was finally done with the strings, she pulled the material down, and he helped her get it off him by lifting his hips. And then she was left with staring at  _ him  _ for the first time.

For a while that was the only thing she did - just stared.

How on seven hells did _ it _ fit inside her? How could  _ it _ go into her every second night without damaging her entirely? How was she even able to walk afterwards?

How...?

She risked a look at his face; he was casually watching her, something like a half-smirk on his face, with a hint of... pride?

Well. If that was what men cared about, she suspected he might have a thing to be proud of.

Hesitantly, her eyes returned to his manhood. Maybe she should call it by its true name, but one change at a time seemed like a better approach. She wasn’t yet ready to touch it or actually do anything more creative than taking it inside her, so she just moved up his body until her intimate parts landed exactly above his, her skirts spreading around them like a bright wave. First, she brushed her bare folds against him; such a simple act was enough to light up the fire and discard all the remnants of shame, making her neck arch, eyes closed, hands coming to rest on his chest - a first time she had truly touched him, though this fact was lost on her at the moment. She could feel him reacting as well, hardening beneath her, his hands traveling to her hips. For some time she just repeated the motion, her own wetness coating him until she knew she was ready. Leaning against him for leverage, she moved up to slowly lower herself onto him until she took him whole and for a moment just stayed still, overwhelmed by the sensations. The stretch felt different, everything felt different; she had never experienced such fullness. Everything seemed new - the depth, the angle, his touch on her hips, her hands on his chest, the surge of control, his utter stillness as he didn't move an inch, handing her the reins. She breathed deeply, slowly, with her eyes closed, getting used to it all. Eventually, her gaze met his for one fleeting moment, and the sight of dark lust in his irises managed to shut down her mind entirely.

It was her play, and she was going to utilize it to the fullest.

She moved up and down experimentally, whimpering, biting her lower lip as she was steadily giving in to her body’s needs. The world was forgotten as she established the right pace for her, up and down, her knees widening, her hands putting her whole weight on his chest - that will definitely leave a trace - her frame leaning slightly down, so there was enough friction on her burning bundle with her every movement as their pelvises crashed. Soon she found herself speeding up, the pressure inside her building and building, reaching somewhere deep, somewhere she didn’t think she had ever felt before. Forgetting she wasn’t alone in the room, she completely surrendered to what her body wanted, moving in a frenzy, gasping and moaning, her mind clouded by pure lust, her nails digging into the fabric of his tunic. A few more rounds up and down and she came with a cry, clenching around him in the most pleasurable way possible, riding her release until there was nothing left.

Finally, she remembered to breathe and opened her eyes, closed the whole time, to get reminded it wasn’t a one-actor play. Or rather wasn’t supposed to be, in theory. She found herself leaning directly above Roose, dangerously close to his face, her hands still on his chest, her hair dangling between them. He was looking at her, the smirk still present on his face as he reached up and put a wild curl behind her ear. She didn’t move, staring down at him, panting.

“That was an interesting experience,” he commented, his eyes still dark, but also somewhat sparkling.

She frowned, the tone of his voice giving her no clue as to what that "interesting" could truly mean. Her mind back where it belonged, she suddenly didn't feel comfortable with her position, and quickly straightened to finally ease him out of her. Gazing down she realized he was still hard and oozing, slick with her juices.

“You didn’t...” She gestured at him, the tips of her ears turning red. He didn't expect her to do anything about it, did he? She definitely wasn't ready for taking any additional steps this night. Only now did she realize that by giving her a free hand at the act he had truly lived up to it, moving ever so slightly, doing almost nothing to reach his pleasure, or to help her achieve hers. Not that she needed any help this time.

That had proved to be not particularly well planned on her part - winning him over with pleasure demanded  _ him _ reaching it thanks to  _ her _ , not the other way around. Therefore, if he insisted on finishing inside her she didn't mind. She had already satisfied her needs both physically and mentally, by showing him she would have her say in the bedchamber as well as everywhere else. 

“No. But it is enough for today.”

She watched him, slightly dumbfounded, as he moved out of the bed, dressed up, and bid her his usual farewell before leaving the chamber.

Still confused, Sansa quickly cleaned herself and lay down, thinking. The night went well, but she had been certain he would wish to continue until his needs were satisfied as well. Besides, it was all about getting her pregnant, wasn’t it? He wouldn’t achieve it if he didn’t spill inside her, or that was what she believed was right, which considering her very limited knowledge on the topic might not have been true. Assuming it was, however, it meant today somehow didn't revolve around getting her pregnant... but pleasure itself? Her pleasure? He could have easily continued their encounter but had chosen not to. Why?

This was supposed to be her night, and yet he still managed to mess in her mind. Frustrated, Sansa finally drifted into sleep, sweet sleep of a thousand pleasures, this time within her grasp. 


	12. Louder Than Thunder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, from what I recall (I wrote it months ago), was one of those that brought me the most joy while writing it. It was entirely unplanned and just wrote itself almost in one go in a surge of Inspiration (and it also happens to be the longest as far). I hope you can enjoy it as much as I did! Smutty phase continues! 
> 
> Enjoy and stay safe, wherever you are! <3

Winter was already here - Sansa could feel it in every part of her body. She was wearing her warmest gown, a heavy coat, and the thickest fur she could have found, but she was still cold. It surprised her slightly - as a Northerner, she should be used to varying degrees of cold. Had the years in the South changed her tolerance for low temperatures, or was it the Tully part of her speaking up? She didn’t know but as she looked at the other people around her she noticed no one else was trembling. The horses, at first stumbling in the thick snow, quickly learned to lift their legs higher. Everyone seemed accustomed to the harsher conditions, everyone but her.

Winter sun shone brightly and as it rose higher the snow started sparkling, making her reconsider whether the journey was such a good idea after all: her eyes narrowed at the contact with the light, shying away from it, her head sending her a single warning. No, she couldn’t be sick again. She will win against it this time. She had to.

Ignoring the pain in her eyes and slight tingling in her head Sansa tried to focus on the beauty of her surroundings instead. She had missed those landscapes for so long, and finally, she could witness them again in their full glory. The summer child watched the winter lands all around her with girlish fascination, the snow speaking to her, calling her home. The fields of thick, sparkling white spreading up to the horizon. The trees, some only dried barks and sad, desperate branches devoid of leaves, others blossoming and thriving as it was their season - reaching high into the sky, proudly presenting their green needles and ripe cones. The feel of magic permeating the air as memories rushed back to her, strong and nostalgic, making her smile in fond remembrance.

They had set out at dawn in a small company of her handmaiden, her personal guards, and some soldiers, enough to protect them if anything was to happen, and not too many to leave Winterfell unguarded. Besides, it was supposed to be a quick journey: in case anything dire was taking place at home, they would most probably make it back on time. Sansa didn't know who would be in direct charge of the castle during their absence; Roose had to have someone he more or less trusted with the task, otherwise, he would have never left Winterfell walls. She will find it out some other time - every information about people loyal to her husband was precious, but right now there were more pressing concerns at hand.

A few small huts spurted from the white ground here and there on their way North. Sansa wished to make some acquaintances, but the people were hiding in their houses, and she didn’t feel well enough to truly press on it. Maybe on their way back she will be more accustomed to the conditions and could do something to make the smallfolk trust her enough to leave their wooden shelters.

Ser Osbern’s keep was located at a two-day ride distance from Winterfell; Sansa believed they wouldn’t even make a stop if it weren’t for her presence, but her being here demanded they found a place to sleep at night. Was she feeling her usual self, she would insist on traveling non-stop; in her current condition, though, she didn’t feel the strength to be on horseback for two days straight, and would truly appreciate lying down in a warm bed someplace nice. They were heading for the inn nearby when a peasant appeared at the edge of the road. Her soldiers immediately drew their weapons, but she calmed them with a gesture of her hand and approached the man.

“Lady Stark!” he beamed and even though she felt cold dread running down her spine at the use of her family name, she smiled graciously down at him. Did the people of the North have no self-preservation to be running around and calling her a Stark in Roose's presence? “I... I wanted to meet you... to thank you for the people you sent, they're so much help.”

People she had sent? Only now did she manage to recognize the man as the very first Northerner who had come to Winterfell to ask for her help.

“I'm glad to hear that.” She smiled at him again, satisfied the man associated the help he had received with her personally.

The farmer hesitated visibly, looking at the soldiers surrounding her, their shields displaying the most hated sigil in the entire North. 

“You may speak freely,” she encouraged him, though she wasn’t entirely sure as to why exactly. She was curious what it could be about, and felt the deep need to help him again, was he in need. After all, he was the one who started a wheel of change and gave her more confidence in performing her duties to the North, unknowingly to himself and anyone else but her.

“I don’t have much, m’lady...” the man stammered, wringing his hands, “...but I’ll always have a warm hearth for you, a-and a meal, not rich, I’m afraid...”

Sansa dismounted from her horse and walked closer to the peasant, her guards following slowly behind. She took his hands into hers and smiled at him.

“We wouldn’t like to endanger your supplies,” she assured him, wondering. The "we" evoked a glint of panic in his features as his eyes skipped through the people surrounding them. Then his gaze returned to Sansa and he smiled sheepishly.

“It ain't enough for everyone,” he admitted in an apologetic tone. ”But enough for m'lady and... m'lord.”

It would be best for her to mingle with the people, even the poorest. _Chaos is a ladder,_ sounded in her head. Maybe the road to the top led exactly from the bottom of that ladder. But she could hardly imagine Roose agreeing on spending the night in the farmer's hut without the soldiers, not to mention letting her stay here alone.

On the other hand... what exactly she had to lose?

“Thank you for your kindness. Please, allow me a moment.” She let go of the man's hands, trying to ignore the fact her gloves were now stained with the dirt from his skin. Her soldiers shadowed her until she reached Roose, who had also dismounted and was looking at her expectantly. “The kind host invites us to be his guests, my lord. You and me.”

She could feel the men around her shift in their saddles. Not a good sign, whatever it could truly indicate.

“It could work wonders for the morale of the Northerners,” she added quieter, so only Roose and her guards could hear her. “For this positive image of your house we’re trying to implement. _Our_ joined houses. If you’d get the reputation of a gentle lord, the Northmen could be more likely to close their eyes to other things.”

Roose tilted his head and she thought she truly pushed it too hard this time.

“If I wished for a reputation of a gentle lord, I wouldn’t be standing here right now. Gentleness is the easiest path to getting yourself killed.”

“I understand that. Forgive me, I misphrased it. What I meant was that lying a layer of gentleness and kindness onto your unwavering reputation of fear and horror could be beneficial. And you know that, just as well as I do.”

She was pushing him hard, but she was certain he agreed with her in a political, coolly calculated way. He was too smart not to see that.

Suddenly, she decided to push him even farther. Again, what did she have to lose?

“Do it for me,” she blurted, her cheeks turning redder, this time not from the cold. She had no idea how he would react; it probably meant nothing to him, but it could be a lot for his game of making her trust him.

He stared right back at her for the longest moment in her life, and she wished he would just say something, anything, as she was freezing from the inside. She also wasn’t sure if whatever she was doing made sense in his lord-ish view of the world: it was one thing to stay at a lord’s or a knight’s keep, though it was still a lot. But for the Warden and Wardeness of the North to spend a night at smallfolk holdings? That had to be unprecedented, and definitely beneath them. She would have surely shared this view six years prior, and she still harbored some reservations deep inside her; it wasn’t about what she wanted or needed, though, but rather what she could gain by doing it.

And she just wished to feel warm again, as soon as possible.

“If this is my lady’s wish, then so be it.” She couldn’t believe her own ears; her lips formed a full, cheerful smile. “But I’m certain our kind host will find some place in the shed for our men, even without food,” Roose added much louder, so the peasant would hear him.

The man visibly tensed, puzzled and uneasy, but nodded nonetheless.

“Of course, m’lord.”

Sansa sincerely hoped they would not leave him any poorer than he already was.

“Lead the way.” Roose handed the reins of his horse over to the nearest soldier and offered Sansa his arm. She accepted it without hesitation, and together, they followed the farmer into a small side road, secluded from the view by the large trees growing along it. The snow here reached up to their knees, the branches hanging low, scraping their clothes. Sansa’s hold on Roose’s arm tightened on its own as she leaned on him while having to lift her legs particularly high to be able to thread the thick white all around them. He didn’t say a word, helping her silently whenever she had trouble crossing the more difficult areas. 

Despite the inconveniences, Sansa felt so satisfied with herself she forgot about the cold and general uneasiness she experienced in her body until Roose spoke up.

“You’re shivering,” he noticed, and she gazed up at him, taken aback. She got even more surprised when he stopped, took off his outer fur, and covered her with it.

“Th-thank you,” she stuttered, genuinely shocked and grateful, wondering for who this show was performed because it definitely wasn’t an act out of concern for her well-being, stemming from the goodness of his heart. The Boltons didn’t even have hearts.

He didn’t comment on it, only urged her to move forward. She felt warmer now, and safer when she could lean onto him for leverage against the snow.

Eventually, the path widened into a clearing - they reached the man’s premises. A field with winter crops to the left, a few small wooden buildings to the right. Sansa gazed around curiously - had she ever been to the Northern smallfolk residence? She couldn’t remember anything like that ever happening. In any smallfolk hut, for the matter. She had been traveling the high roads, and those weren’t the best circumstances to witness any peasants. Not that she would have cared, back then. Everyone had been just the same to her eyes that looked down on them with superiority.

She was no longer that person.

“Me buildings are for your use,” the peasant murmured, looking at the soldiers. Their men dismounted from their horses, tied the reins to the wooden fence surrounding the premises and headed to the sheds and stores. Sansa sincerely hoped they were civil enough to use the food they had brought with them for the road, without damaging the man’s possessions. 

Her handmaiden and a few guards stayed by their side, not moving an inch, making the farmer uneasy. Sansa had a thought it was more for the sigils on their shields rather than the soldiers themselves.

“This me house.” The peasant led them to the central building, the smallest one of them - a wooden hut that didn’t look like it could survive the Winter. “And that’s me grandson.”

There was a small boy, secluded by the shadows of the building. Sansa smiled at him, trying to make a good first impression, but the boy didn’t move into the light.

“Foolish lad,” his grandfather quickly scolded him. “Come pay your respects.”

“That’s quite alright.” Sansa smiled back at him, waving her free hand dismissively. “We should let children be children.”

Her heart stung at the thought of her younger brothers, viciously murdered by someone they had considered a family. They hadn’t lived long enough to leave their childhood years, their short journey ending in suffering at such a young age. She had to blink a few times to fight back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.

The peasant anxiously returned her smile, his mouth missing a lot of teeth. The ones that remained were yellow, some almost rotten; it effectively diverted her attention, her stomach churning. It reminded her of some faces she had seen in King’s Landing, her clothes being torn as the mob wanted to defile her; that memory made her lean into Roose some more, instinctively seeking protection. He gazed at her askance and tightened his hold on her as well. Realizing what she had done, Sansa wanted to straighten immediately, but stopped herself at the last moment - trust, it was all about building trust. Her involuntary reflexes like that one only served in her favor, even though they made her uncomfortable for the sheer fact of occurring somehow beyond her control. His touch had become a common sensation, and it felt... secure against the unknown.

The farmer hurried to the door to his hut, opened it, and invited them inside with a gesture of his hand and a bow. Sansa made a step towards it, but Roose didn’t move and their joined grip stopped her in her tracks. She gazed up at him questioningly; he lightly nodded towards the soldiers before answering.

“For your safety, my lady.” The guards passed the farmer and went inside the hut. She should have seen it coming - saying Roose had some trust issues would be a severe understatement.

She nodded in understanding and discovered she actually did understand. Trusting a common Northerner wouldn’t be the smartest move - they couldn't know what kind of a man he would turn out to be. Maybe she was still a little bit too naive and gullible for her own good.

The soldiers returned and indicated there were no dangers inside. Only then did they move to the hut; the door passage was too narrow to hold two people at once, so Roose let her go first. After a small entryway, she saw a rather spacious area that probably had to be a witness to the family’s most daily activities. There was a table with a long bench, pots and other utensils for cooking, a fire pit on the floor, a loom that seemed to be unused for ages. Not much more. Sansa hungrily took it all in, swearing to remember it to make the Northerners’ lives better and to truly understand their needs.

The man, though skinny, dirty, and probably unhealthy, didn’t seem miserable. He had so little, yet wasn’t bitter about it. She had so much, and still...

She had so much? She laughed internally at that thought. In reality, she had nothing, even less than their host. Nothing she could truly call hers. Not yet.

Soon, she will have it all.

“Please, m’lady.” The farmer showed her to the table and quickly filled a pot with some hot stew. Hesitantly, he filled a second vessel and put it next to the one he had offered her.

Sansa turned around and looked at Roose, who still stood near the door, taking his surroundings in without a trace of interest. She thought they both had to look out of place in a room so poor, but he fitted it better than her. Deprived of his outer fur that was still draped around her, and covered with snow, he looked much more a seasoned warrior, rather than a lord, not accustomed to the rich style of life. Strict, severe, demanding; not needing a lot, but desiring so much more, with unsatiated ambition. Harboring an untamed lust for power, ruthless and calculated, yet somehow different from the likes of which she had already encountered, like Littlefinger. Looking at him and drawing these conclusions, Sansa felt her own lust appearing out of nowhere, and she swallowed hard. He just looked rather... good. His rough, slightly ragged appearance spoke to her senses, awakening something within her, something primal and beyond her control. She hadn’t seen him like that before or ever thought about him this way. It was something new, affecting her deeply, especially combined with some snippets of the last night coming back to her. Disappointment started growing within her at the thought they wouldn't repeat it this night, or any other in the nearest future. 

Quickly turning her head towards the pot to avoid such thoughts, she patted a place next to her on the bench and waited until Roose would join her. He did, the soldiers coming to a stand at the doors, her handmaiden uncomfortably taking a position next to them.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Sansa smiled at the nervous peasant, his features brightening in response. She waved her hand slowly above the pot, letting the pleasant scent reach her nostrils, the warmth filling her from within. It was a simple dish, only vegetables, but as she had her first spoon she discovered she was starving. The taste was rather dull, unable to move her taste buds; it didn’t blunt her appetite, however.

She was ravenous.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Roose wasn’t eating. Irritation suddenly filled her, and before she could think twice about what she was doing she sighed rather theatrically, took his spoon, and tasted his stew. Her acting started to become her second layer of skin, so natural it no longer needed the mind to participate. Roose watched her cautiously, and she could sense he was rather taken aback by her actions.

“See? It’s safe,” she announced proudly, returning to her own meal.

“That was rather unexpected,” he commented, taking the spoon in his hand. “If you’re that hungry you could just ask, I would leave you my portion.”

She cast him a dark glare.

“Just eat.”

He smirked in response but obliged nonetheless. Sansa cleared her vessel, still a little bit hungry; she wasn’t going to either ask for a refill or accept Roose’s offer, though. She didn’t want to exploit the poor farmer nor give her husband satisfaction. There was still some dignity left in her.

“Thank you, it was delicious.” Sansa turned to their host with a thankful smile. It wasn’t true, but he didn’t have to know that. Besides, she would eat more, devour the whole stew if she only could, so it couldn’t be that bad either. “I'd be glad if you showed us your crops and told us about your hardships in the morning.”

“Of course, m’lady.” The man bowed awkwardly, his frame slightly shivering.

“If you could lead us to a place of rest now, I’d appreciate it.” She was tired after the journey and since the bliss of a warm meal had filled her senses she became more than sleepy, almost exhausted.

“Of course.”

The man led them to a small adjacent room, and Sansa realized it was all his hut consisted of. There was some wooden furniture, a pile of straw that made for a sleeping place on the floor, a rather narrow bed located by the opposite wall, and a hole designated for fire, the flames barely twinkling. Sudden draft almost put them out, freezing Sansa to the bone, making her remember how cold she had felt. Shivering, she pulled Roose’s fur tighter around her body.

“Forgive me, m’lady, this is so little, but everything I have,” the man stuttered. Sansa turned to him and smiled widely once again, her whole face brightening.

“This is more than you should give us, thank you.”

“Goodnight, m’lady.” The man cast a wary glance at Roose before adding, “M’lord.”

He closed the door which looked like it had been installed there earlier that day, and left them alone.

Sansa took one hesitant step deeper into the room, tugging absent-mindedly at her gloves. Sudden realization hit her: they had never actually shared a bed through the night. No _sleeping_ together had ever been involved. Was she ready for that step?

What choice did she have, though? She won’t tell him to sleep on the floor. The bed was narrow, half the size of her own, but it was definitely designed for two people, spending the night at close quarters. Really close. Besides, it had been her idea. She had made her own bed, and now she would have to lie in it.

She turned around and gazed at Roose who was busy undoing his sword belt. The sight of the weapon stirred something else in her mind. This seemed like a perfect opportunity for the last part of her plan - they were alone, away from Winterfell, somewhere no one would ever discover what truly happened. She could leave, deceive the soldiers outside, and go to Ser Osbern’s castle.

But how could she go straight to the last part of her plans when she was still at the beginning of them? That was the first argument against, but there were so many others. She didn't know how to use any physical weapon. If she got caught, she would be given to Ramsay and that would be a fate worse than death. If she got caught, the poor peasant would be flayed for his kind heart.

No. Definitely not a good idea.

Hoping she didn’t stare at the sword long enough for Roose to notice, Sansa approached the fire and knelt next to it, putting her hands over the flames for some additional warmth.

“What are we doing here, my lady?”

She gazed up at Roose; he was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Why did he look so good, so… alluring? Something of the thoughts she had conjured earlier returned, stirring her own fire, so she quickly looked away from him and stood up. It was unbelievable how quickly her urges changed, from wishing to kill him to desiring his body in a matter of mere seconds. Truly astonishing. 

“We are leaving a positive impression,” she answered while approaching the bed. It wasn’t going to be a comfortable night - a thin piece of material that had probably been white once was draped over the wooden frame, with only a little filling underneath it. The cover was leather, with a fur lining, but Sansa felt it wouldn’t help her shelter herself from usual low temperatures, not to mention today when she was feeling so dreadfully cold.

“By sleeping in a peasant’s hut.” It was neither a statement nor a question.

“Yes.” She was tired and wanted to sleep, preferably somewhere warm, but that was out of the question. She sat down experimentally, and the wood creaked beneath her. “The peasant tells other peasants that he invited Lord and Lady Bolton into his home, and not only wasn’t he flayed, but he was repaid for his hospitality with kindness and help, and treated gently. And the Lady looked rather pleased with the conditions he granted her.”

She cast him a quick look, then continued, at the same time shedding her furs to use them as cover. It was the first time she addressed herself aloud as _lady Bolton_ , but she managed to say it without missing a beat.

“From the peasants, the word spreads to their direct landlords, and then the higher lords hear the message, which leaves a positive impression.”

She stared at Roose’s fur in her hands and decided she would take it for her cover as it was much thicker than the leather from the bed, and leave that to him.

“That’s what you believe they will think?”

“Yes.” She lay down, covering herself with a cloak and two furs. The materials and the wooden walls weren't enough to shelter her from the cold, though, and the fire in the floor was barely burning. She shivered under the furs and, to keep her mind occupied with something else, rested her head on her forearm and turned onto her side. "But you don't like it," she commented, staring at Roose. "You think it's beneath you." 

That new kind of nervousness revolving around the idea of _sleeping_ together returned, increased tenfold. How would it feel like to sense his presence the whole night? Would she even be able to fall asleep, feeling his body pressing against hers all the time? Somehow, it seemed... intimate, to share such a small chamber, to spend so much time together in a restricted space. That had never happened before.

"I don't like it," he admitted. "And don't pretend _you_ don't feel the same." 

It was beneath them, he was right. But she needed the smallfolk, she needed their hearts. And in the game she played, he needed them as well, superficially at least. 

This time, she decided to pour out her heart's contents and be entirely honest. As much as she could be, speaking the truth intended to his ears only, of course.

"Maybe it is beneath us. Maybe it's weird and no other lord would do that. Maybe they would feel we've lost our minds, or suspect us of false intentions. It may all be true." She stopped for a moment, thinking about the right words to use. "But Winter is coming, and it can't be about false intentions or positive impressions. The people need us. And we need them. Everyone needs to support everyone else, otherwise, we won't survive. You perceive kindness as a weakness, but this is not about it. It is the core of our survival. Maybe it is a weakness if you don't know how to use it properly, if it's too much or caused by false intentions. But don't mistake it with foolish naivety. You only know how to install fear, and you perceive small acts of kindness as ruining whatever you established. Maybe you don't believe in loyalty, maybe you don’t believe in trust or anything rather than terror, but it was not terror that helped my family reign the North for so many years." She hesitated but continued after a while, her voice intentionally quieter. "It wasn't terror that made me want to help you rule the North, but the opposite of it. How you treat me when we're alone. People want a just ruler, and even when they fear you they need to feel confident enough to ask you for help. If they don't, they'll rebel and turn to someone else, and we wouldn't want that. If they rebel, if they turn against us, they would turn against the whole North, and the North would not survive the Winter. We would all die. The North would die." She had no idea where all of it was coming from, but she felt fiercely confident about everything she was saying. "Let me help you. Let me guide you through the meanders of human emotions you don't fully understand." 

The majority of those words left her throat on their own, without asking her mind for consent. It surprised her, not only because of what they meant but also because she felt that in a way, they weren't immensely false. That variable truth crafted for him turned out to be much more than that, and the raw honesty hearable in her own voice moved her deeply. She had never spoken to him in such a way. 

Roose was just looking at her for a while, expressionless as always, then stood up and perched next to her on the bed. 

"That was a speech worthy of a queen," he commented, and she blushed immediately. A queen? There had been a time she was supposed to be _the_ Queen, but that time was long gone. Unless…

Unless he meant _the Queen_ _in the North…_

Did he want to make her the Queen in the North so he could rule as her king? Was… was that what he was really up to? 

But no one in their right mind would ever call him the King in the North, and he had to know it. If she was ever to become the Queen, it wouldn't be good for him. She would never have him by her side, not as a husband, definitely not as a king. It was probably just a figure of speech, and nothing more. Besides, he would never let his true intentions be known to anyone other than himself. Those were just words, meant to throw her off guard. 

She shuddered suddenly as a wave of chill spread through her body. 

"I'm cold," she quickly explained, not wishing him to have any wrong notions. There was a brief spark in his eyes as he leaned over her and proceeded to pull her covers away. "That won't make me feel any warmer," she murmured, keeping them close to her despite his efforts. 

"Oh, but it will." 

At first, she didn't realize what he meant, but then she felt his hand sliding underneath her covers and her gown, and suddenly it was all clear.

Heat rising to her cheeks, she immediately closed her legs and on instinct tried to push him away, which resulted in her fist coming in contact with his chest. Only after the fact she realized what she had just done, and felt slight terror at the thought of how he might react, mixed with a hint of anger at him for taking her for granted, and herself for wanting it so much it almost hurt.

He didn’t seem to mind her actions, not moving an inch. His hand was still beneath her gown, between her legs; there was a flicker of curiosity in his eyes as he looked up at her, asking silently.

“We can’t. Not here.” She shook her head, though her body was telling a different story. The fire had already been born, and she couldn’t deny his previous statement - it could help her feel warmer. She had thought about it so many times that day, but it was important to present her opinion and stand her ground. At least momentarily, because she had no doubt she would eventually lose herself in her physical desires. “We’re guests here, we shouldn’t...”

He cut her short before she would be forced to actually name the thing.

“Everything in the North belongs to us, including this bed and the man's life. We may do as we please.” She shuddered at the menacing meaning behind the words, even though his voice was as smooth as ever. He stared right back at her as his hand ventured further up her legs.

“Someone might hear us,” she weakly tried to protest some more, but her body already gave up on resisting, opening up to him and the fire, warming her from within. Her legs parted, allowing his hand a free passage.

“Do you have any other reservation apart from people hearing us?” he asked almost innocently as his fingers traveled up her thigh.

“N-no,” she stuttered because she truly did not. She wanted it, she wanted to feel that warmth, that fire, that pleasure, and there was no denying it.

“Then you ought to be quiet.”

His fingertips slid down her riding clothes where she needed his touch the most and she shuddered, barely withholding a gasp. It was just a brush, but enough to gather all the fire she had experienced that day and culminate it into this moment. Her eagerness must have been obvious, as she believed there already was a wet patch of her arousal on the material. Somehow, she was not ashamed of it.

She watched him, mesmerized, as he lifted her covers and buried himself underneath them. Awaiting what was to come with a thrill and anticipation, she lifted her hand to her mouth and bit hard on it. She thought he had to really like her taste down there, otherwise, he definitely wouldn't do _that_ so often. Not that she complained. Quickly all coherent thoughts vanished as he spread her thighs further apart and, after getting rid of any material that might obscure her most sensitive parts, gave one lustful lick along her folds. It would make her immediately cry out in pleasure if it wasn't for the hand in her mouth. She was already feeling much warmer.

When his fingers circled her opening and finally entered her, one by one until she was completely filled, she discovered that biting her hand won't suffice. To add to it, she dug her nails into her skin, dug hard until it hurt. Somehow the joint sensations of pain and pleasure made the fire even more intense, and she felt engulfed by the flames. There was also some weird sensation of a forbidden fruit conjured by the new situation - they weren’t in Winterfell in the confines of her bedchamber, they shouldn’t be doing what they were doing. Another thrill was brought by the fact they were both basically fully clothed, and she couldn’t even see him as he was secluded from her view by the furs still covering her. She had already got used to the sight.

He worked her mercilessly, his fingers curling inside her, hitting something so pleasurable she bucked her hips almost violently, doing her best not to scream as he continued to lap on her folds, his tongue encircling her most sensitive bud, driving her insane. Tears fell down her face at the mixture of sensations, her teeth and nails digging so hard droplets of blood appeared on her skin. She could stand it no more and finally came apart, mewling through the hand in her mouth, clenching around his fingers as she felt every drop of one of the most intense pleasures so far.

She was already drained from energy, sweat glistening on her forehead, droplets of blood trailing down her hand; still, the introduction had to have its follow-up. Trying to steady her breathing and failing in it miserably, she watched as Roose sat up, discarded the furs covering her, freed his manhood from his breeches, and positioned himself at her entrance, looming over her like he usually had done. She waited in anticipation, staring right into his eyes. He stared right back, his irises dark. 

When he entered her she sighed contentedly. Somehow she felt complete, like that was what she had been missing the whole day, like all the tension amounted to this moment to be finally resolved. Relaxing completely, she suddenly yelped from surprise when he forced her hand out of her mouth.

“We wouldn’t want lady Stark to have wounds on her hands,” he explained with a glint in his eyes as he grasped her other hand and put both of them over her head, holding them tightly by the wrists. He called her lady _Stark_ \- probably because for the people they were visiting, she was and will always be a Stark. Never lady _Bolton._ It might also be some indirect comment regarding her previous use of her new house name; at the moment, her mind was not in a place to analyze it.

She looked at him with indignation but said nothing, determined to show him she was able to withstand it without problems, at the same time retaining the eye contact.

Only one thrust was enough to prove she will have problems; how could she remain silent when she felt so much? But she had to, she had to stand it for her own pride.

The task turned out to be even more difficult when with his free hand he pushed her skirts up and let his fingers return to her oversensitive bud, teasing her, tracing out slow circles only to speed up, all the while setting a relentless pace of his thrusts. The bed creaked with his every move, her hips bucked to meet him, and she could only whirl underneath him, withstanding the torture as well as she was only able to.

Sweat trickled down her forehead while she tried her best not to make a sound, to close her throat, at the same time shattering into thousand pieces; she attempted to wriggle her hands out of his grasp, but he held them firmly in place, his grip slightly bordering on being painful. She was unable to look him in the eyes as she had previously planned - it was too much. The last thing she could do was to bite onto her lower lip and close her eyes, focusing on the sensations while not letting her throat express them aloud. It should work.

The bed creaked more and more, she thought it could break from the force it moved with them. Her fire grew and grew, the cold long forgotten, building up to something grand, and she surrendered.

"Come for me, Sansa."

Her eyes shot open, and as she met his darkened, demanding gaze she didn't need anything else. Her name on his lips without any title found her unprepared; it was completely unexpected, and in such a vulnerable moment that it took her off guard. The way it sounded... the power it had... it was even worse than she had thought it would be. And definitely sufficed to help her fulfill that request.

She was too caught up in her surprise to be loud, staring straight into his eyes, forgetting about the iron grasp on her wrists, forgetting everything apart from _Sansa_ in her ears, apart from his irises, reflecting her own. Three more erratic thrusts and he followed her into the bliss, even quieter than ever, holding her gaze.

They stared into each other for a moment, Sansa desperately trying to get her own name out of her head - or maybe rather trying to mentally force him to say it again? She couldn’t be quite sure. Steadying his ragged breathing, Roose eased out of her and covered her with the discarded furs. She felt wet down there, their joined juices dampening her thighs, her riding clothes, and her gown; that definitely won’t help her feel warmer in the night, but there was nothing to be done about it. Besides, she wasn’t sure she even cared.

_Come for me, Sansa._

The words were filthy, weren’t they? But her name... oh, it was some hellish power to be able to mesmerize another human being with a voice alone. With five letters said in this voice, to be more exact.

She couldn’t look away from him and he noticed it, reaching his fingers to wipe the blood from her chin that had spilled from her lip. Sansa briefly thought where these fingers had been barely moments ago, and burnt in shame, though she discovered the shame was lesser every single time she experienced it.

“I hope it warmed you enough, my lady.” He said serenely and laid down next to her on his back. This way, to feel comfortable, she would either have to sleep on her side or snuggle up to him. As the second option was unthinkable, she turned to the wall, deciding not to comment on his words. They both knew she wasn’t able to pretend when it came to the matters of pleasures, which made any answer unnecessary.

Wondering how she would be able to fall asleep feeling his overbearing presence so strongly behind her, hearing his voice in her head over and over again, she immediately drifted off to sleep, even before she could finish the thought.


	13. Points of View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's perspectives widen and her opinions shift - the musings chapter! 
> 
> I have to share something with you (and I hope it won't scare you too much :P) - I just started writing chapter 50 of this story! Considering the usual longevity of my stories and how quickly I've always jumped to new ones, I'm pretty proud of it. And it's all in the span of only seven months! 
> 
> Enjoy, and take care! <3

“My lady.”

The words reached her consciousness but didn’t make sense, only awakening her from the dream. Sansa slowly opened her eyes, and instead of the usual flames of the hearth or the view from the window, she faced an unknown wooden wall. Frowning, she tried to recall where she was and what exactly she was doing here.

She turned onto her back and started at the sight of Roose’s face above her. It immediately removed any remnant of sleep from her mind, reminding her of the events of the previous day and, even more importantly, night.

“Morning.” He peered down at her, taking in her disheveled form. She felt a blush creeping onto her cheeks; they had never seen each other in such a state. It seemed much more vulnerable than anything she was ever willing to show him.

And they had just shared a bed. She wouldn’t know about him, but she had slept through the whole night, rather blissfully. Which didn’t change the fact she still felt dreadfully tired.

She had thought she wouldn’t be able to sleep with him next to her; it scared her how easily that had turned out to be, effortless even.

“Morning,” she mumbled back, sitting up. She could feel her hair curled in every possible direction; there was a sting in a small wound on her hand, pleasant soreness between her legs, and hunger spreading throughout her whole being. Her wrists bore the slightest shade of purple. Taking all of that in, she recollected everything from the last night.

Her name on his lips.

But he had greeted her as _my lady_. Maybe she had only dreamed of it? Quite possibly so - it had had such an impact on her body and soul it seemed impossible to be real. Right…?

She gazed up at him, wondering, silently provoking him to repeat it. He stared right back at her, not taking the bait. Contrary to her, he looked perfectly composed, and she felt a sting of envy at his equanimity in every possible situation. 

Roose stood up and offered her his hand. She took it and hauled herself out of the bed, leaning on him for support. Transferring her weight onto his forearm at first, she could stand on her own two feet a moment later. Once she looked up, she discovered his face was so dreadfully close to her own, barely inches apart… Her eyes slid down to his lips on their own accord, her mind racing as her fingers squeezed his arm even tighter.

_Say it._

“We need to go, my lady. There’s still a day's journey to Ser Osbern, and I believe you promised our host a private audience on his fields.”

Her eyes returned to his as she let go of him and collected herself.

“One moment,” she murmured, nodding in acquiescence. Her eyes skipped over the room in search of anything resembling a mirror, but of course, there was no such thing. Her vanity and pride might have been long gone now, but the dignity still alive in her demanded to look at least somewhat presentable. Calling for her handmaiden in a current situation would seem like an emphasis of her wealth against the smallfolk’s poverty, and it could result in something contrary to the intended effect. And so, she combed her hair with her fingers, trying to bring order to it. The tangled mass wasn't easy to deal with and it took her a lot of time to at least straighten some of it.

Her eyes unwillingly ventured to Roose, asking despite her mind’s wishes.

“Presentable,” he commented with a slight smirk, and she believed him, blushing. Why she was asking for his opinion about anything was completely beyond her.

They walked into the bigger room, a smell of fresh vegetables reaching Sansa’s nostrils. They didn’t have such smells in Winterfell, or maybe she had never focused on them before.

The peasant greeted them jovially and served them breakfast. His grandson stared at them with hostility, sitting on the floor at the opposite wall. Sansa wondered in shame how thin the walls of the hut actually were, and if they had been heard. She truly hoped not, but couldn’t stop the color from rising to her cheeks. She should have protested further the other night, she shouldn’t have let it happen, even though her body had wanted it, needed it, demanded it. Hopefully, they will have separate chambers in Ser Osbern’s keep. Or at least a room with a bigger bed and thicker walls.

After a meal, Sansa urged the man to elaborate on the villagers’ problems, his fields, crops, and stores. She listened intently as he led them through his premises, showing them everything there was to see. She promised him his and his companions' needs would be satisfied eventually and assured him he could always ask for her help. Roose followed her around the whole time, barely speaking up. She chose to pretend he wasn’t even there, only from time to time addressing him for some questions or clarifications of her own.

They set out for the remaining journey when the sun was already high in the sky. Sansa didn’t feel as cold as the other day, so she gave Roose his fur back. She was still tired and pretty sensitive while horse riding, but those were minor inconveniences. The snowfall seemed lighter, not bothering them too much, and they reached their destination at dusk.

Sansa greeted the stone of the walls with merriness; it was her material, not wood. It perfectly suited what she wanted to gain - the iron in her veins, the cold in her blood. Ser Osbern and his wife welcomed them at their keep, a sharp contrast between the restrained, polite noblemen's behavior and what Sansa had experienced with the commoner clearly visible now, and starker than ever.

They didn’t allow themselves to show any distinction in attitude towards her and Roose, treating them both with humble respect. There weren’t many talks involved given the late hour, and after the supper, they were led to their chambers: adjacent, but separate. Upon parting, Sansa gazed at her husband and said firmly, trying to convey a stern message to keep him away at night:

“Have a good night, my lord.”

“Likewise, my lady.”

She expected to hear her own name or see some kind of a smirk, but received nothing of that sort, as he just walked inside and closed the door behind him, two soldiers left to guard it. She had three, her usual companions since the "incident" with Ramsay. Bidding them farewell as she had used to do for quite some time now, she hid inside her room.

The flames in the hearth were burning brightly, shielding the chamber from the dark and the cold. She sat down before them, staring at the fire. On her wedding day, she had sworn to learn the names of all the treacherous lords, to make them pay. But how would she know who was a traitor and who wasn’t? Before, she had thought the fact of being alive was enough to categorize them, but now she was no longer so sure. Except for the obvious cases like Roose or the Karstarks, maybe they all had had to do what it took to survive. Just like her. She wouldn’t know the answer until the Boltons were defeated and everyone would be forced to either pledge their loyalties to her or die.

The pleasant warmth spread throughout her body and soon the tiredness she had been experiencing returned, prompting her to move onto the bed and welcome the sweet embraces of sleep.

For the next few days, the young couple introduced them to the mysteries and problems their keep had. At first cold and restrained, especially that Ser Osbern’s brother had been murdered at the Red Wedding, thanks to Sansa’s open ears and kindness they slowly started warming up to her. Sansa discovered her council was severely lacking at times, but Roose talked more and was truly insightful this time around, lending his own wisdom. More often than not Sansa found herself with Lady Osbern, debating on the matters of running a household, while Roose and Ser Osbern ventured somewhere else to discuss military issues or rebuildings.

Sansa became quickly fond of lady Osbern and her family, even though they were never truly alone. Their young house didn’t seem to be the one of true loyalty, just doing whatever they could to make their children come out of it all alive. Gazing at the little ones running around the halls or playing in the snow, Sansa felt a peculiar sting inside her. It might be about revenge for her, but so many people simply couldn’t afford any devotion towards higher houses. She had been born into the Great House of the North, one of the most important in the whole Westeros; her perspective had always been clouded by her status. She wanted to avenge her family and demanded other people to follow her lead. But those very same people had their own families to protect, their own priorities that might land very far from avenging some noblemen they had probably never even met. Duty was one thing, and the heart was another, most often contradicting. She had known it well from her own experience.

After sharing pieces of advice and arranging some future cooperation, they left a few men behind to help around the keep and said their goodbyes, moving to another holding a few days' journey away, with hosts who agreed to meet as well. Sansa regretted having to part ways with her new acquaintances but she felt wiser now than she had been a few days ago, so she was in no way disappointed with the visit. The freshly gained insight and perspectives were invaluable for they left her shaken, but made anew.

Back on the road, she caught herself gazing at Roose way too often. During their time at Ser Osbern’s, they had seemed like a normal, functional marriage; filled with opposites and contrasts, but a rather healthy one. And, busy with other people’s problems but not her own, subconsciously she had let herself feel like it. They had discussed things, all kinds of things - military, winter, stores, buildings - they had acted as equal Lady and Lord of Winterfell, being very believable in it. That had probably been one of the factors which opened House Osbern to them. Roose had also shown her he respected her rights to refuse him - though her "goodnights" could have been ambiguous, they were followed by a complete lack of his nightly visits, and that fact wasn’t something she would fail to notice.

All things considered, she started looking at him through a slightly different set of eyes. And she wondered. Nothing could ever change the fact he had betrayed her family and killed Robb, and she continuously hated him for that with a burning passion, but... Maybe he had done it for his house's survival? She had heard about Robb’s mistakes, or at least some of them. Something must have changed, something that maybe had meant the Young Wolf had been going to lose the North, and everything slowly accumulated to eventually erupt. The Red Wedding would have happened with or without Roose - even though it was his knife that ended Robb’s life, the main forces behind it all had been the Freys and the Lannisters. Roose was a third party, beneficial, but not essential for it all to happen. If he had refused to play the part, he would have been butchered with the rest of them.

But currently his house had no future either way. He disliked Ramsay quite clearly, so he had had to count on some trueborn heir he would father all the way back. He hadn’t cared about the North, obviously, but maybe there was some interest in him about his own people, who had survived thanks to the betrayal. Or maybe he did have some slightest concern for the lands he had theoretically sworn to protect? The Bolton forces had helped some lords get rid of the Ironborn. He had agreed to send people to the Wall. They were doing whatever they were doing right now. Most probably, though, he just wished his name to shine brightly through the ages, even if that line would end with him. Or... maybe it was all about the almost eternal struggle between their two houses, to show the Starks and the history who will ultimately prevail over the North. Maybe those were strictly selfish reasons, desiring all the power for himself, and there was nothing deeper to it. Maybe.

The "maybe's" made her head spin. Why did she even think that way? Why did a part of her want to look at him with a gentler, almost forgiving eye? He was a murderer, and she had sworn to hate him for the whole eternity, to end his life one day. What was she even thinking?

Shame filled her entire being, along with guilt at the sheer fact those thoughts had been created in her mind. She had no idea where they had come from, she didn’t want them either way. What he had done was unforgivable, and she could never forget that. She won’t. Not ever. Besides, he had done nothing to erase his betrayal, showing no remorse whatsoever, never apologizing for his wrongdoings. How could she ever even begin to forgive someone like that?

Straightening in her saddle, she swallowed hard and looked away from him. No more. He was a monster, and it didn’t matter how gentle he was with her, how he had never hurt her physically, how she, unwillingly, had grown to like having him inside her. None of that mattered. He had hurt her mentally, he had killed her family member, he had contributed to making her life a living hell when she had still been confined to King’s Landing. Had Robb been alive, he would have surely come to rescue her. Or at least tried to. But Roose had cut his life short, and she had been left in the capital to be tortured, humiliated, forgotten by her country, miserable and alone. No more.

He was a monster, and nothing could ever change that.

She wondered briefly whether she wasn’t too comfortable with him in the eyes of other people. What if they thought she was truly content with being his wife? What if they really believed the message she had convinced him they were implementing for his house's sake? What if they would accuse her of betraying her family? Maybe she should have shown some signs of distress?

But, first of all, she wasn’t in distress. Second, if her guards noticed anything suspicious she would try to convey to the people, her plan of making Roose trust her would fall to ashes, and nothing she had done as far would have any meaning. Third, she couldn’t risk innocent lives for her personal benefit, or be sure they were trustworthy, or that they would choose her alone if, at the moment, their joined houses offered help and peace, quite a big army standing behind them. They would choose their own families and what was best for their survival, according to her newly acquired knowledge. Also, if by any chance the words of her distress would reach some loyalists' ears and they would rally to rescue her... They all would die, in a battle, a siege, or by an assassin’s hand. Bad for the North, bad for her.

Besides, the way she had been playing it was beneficial for building this so-called trust between them. And, when the time will come and she would require a rescue or men, the Northerners would understand all of it was only an act. The simplest deduction would tell them that.

Satisfied with the way her thinking had gone, silencing the pestering voice inside her that claimed she was only calming her consciousness with sweet lies she herself didn’t believe in, she straightened up even more, taking in their surroundings. It didn’t seem like Winter now, Autumn not ready to bid the world farewell yet. The snow was scarce, and the people more scantily clad - which meant having thin cloaks in place of thick furs. The horses didn’t have trouble walking anymore, and happily trod forwards, neighing and shaking their heads without any nervousness.

Sansa felt some new life entering her. She had no idea what it was exactly, and found it slightly peculiar how in a fraction of a day she could conjure so many often contradicting emotions and opinions; considering where it eventually led her she didn’t complain. Immersed in her thoughts, she didn’t even notice when her mare drew level with Roose’s horse.

“You seem glad, my lady,” he noticed, and she granted him a personalized smile.

“That’s because I am,” she answered almost truthfully. Apart from the more-or-less calming conclusions created in her head, she also felt much better physically. For the first time in weeks, she didn't have any complaints towards her body - no nausea, no cold, no tiredness, no headache: just her usual self. She had almost forgotten what it felt like.

“Any particular reason?” he inquired, and she could swear she saw a hint of interest in his eyes.

“Not really.” She shook her head, unwilling to delve into her personal musings with him. “Ser Osbern and his wife are amiable people,” she added, changing the topic.

“Yes. Indeed they are.”

She gazed at the sun, dying on the far horizon, and then around them - there had been nothing but woods and fields for a lot of miles.

“Where are we staying tonight?”

“There is an inn nearby, the host was informed of our arrival this morning.” _This morning -_ enough time to get rid of current occupants, probably not enough to set up any decent trap. “Unless you wish to make some other… interesting acquaintances,” Roose ended, and even though his voice was its usual tone, the meaning gave the mockery away.

“I believe we’ll make plenty of interesting acquaintances before we come back home,” Sansa retorted, unmoved, specifically saying _home_ instead of _Winterfell_. The home of Lord and Lady Bolton. “Who knows where they’ll lead us.”

She gave him a wider smile lined with some mockery of her own, and sped up her horse, enjoying the sensation of the chilly wind playing with her hair. For a moment she managed to forget the world, just taking joy from the nature around her and the fleeting sense of freedom she was experiencing. She rode and rode, hearing her guards following her closely behind, until they reached a clearing, with a path leading to a secluded building, hidden behind the trees. Given the sun had already disappeared, she gathered it had to be their destination. Her mare neighed and stopped as Sansa forced her to wait until the rest of their companions would join them.

The inn was a simple building in the middle of nowhere, and the host everything but kind; still, it guaranteed a warm meal, a hearth, and a place for all of their people. It was Sansa's choice to once again share a chamber with Roose - if they slept in separate rooms, there wouldn't be enough space for their men. She wouldn't want that. 

Once again, they had to share a bed as well, though it was thrice as big as the previous one. Sansa’s high spirits didn’t allow her to mind. Moreover, she found out with a slight fright that some parts of her even _wanted_ it. 

And when she stared back at him as he was taking his due as her lord husband, she discovered she was curious what his lips would taste like. 


	14. Tell Me Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The shortest chapter as far, but a very important one, containing some life-changing discoveries! 
> 
> Enjoy and take care! <3

The whole journey through small keeps, inns, and villages had ultimately taken them a few good weeks. Sansa had met a lot of Northerners, but no one as kind and inviting as their first hosts. People varied from rough to politely restrained, from cold to warm, from hostile to more or less friendly. The problems the Northern houses had were pretty much the same wherever they would go, and she discovered she wished for some kind of break, a moment of breath away from all of it. There were still some topics she didn't feel confident enough about, like the Wildlings, one of the usual issues. The Night’s Watch and its Lord Commander had also appeared from time to time, making her heart squeeze in longing. She had quite probably managed to make an enemy of one lady while finding a friend in another. She even got engaged in a children’s play, warmth spreading through her body at the sounds of the little ones' laughter. The color had risen high in her cheeks after their mother inquired about the future heir of Winterfell. She had no idea what to even say to that. Not that they hadn’t been trying: the inns were their places for intimacy, and Sansa had been surprised to discover she felt more and more though nothing else had changed.

Her physical state had been varied. The headaches appeared every so often, tiredness sometimes making her anxious with the fear she would fall asleep in the saddle. More than a few times morning nausea had developed into vomiting. Her appetites could be non-existent, but on other occasions, she had been so hungry the hosts stared at her uneasily. Sometimes she had an appetite for one specific thing, usually something completely impossible to get. Once she believed she had seen a glint of understanding in one lady’s eyes, but she thought she might have been mistaken and therefore hadn't wished to ask any uncomfortable questions. 

Taking everything into consideration, Sansa slowly started to worry. Maybe she was sick? She knew nothing about human illnesses; except for pox her brothers had once had, the Starks were sturdy and healthy people. Maester Luwin hadn't had much to do in that field, only overseeing her mother’s pregnancies and helping to deliver the babes. Sansa hadn’t truly remembered them - she had still been just a child when Rickon had been in her mother’s belly, and she hadn’t paid much attention to it. A thought she had no idea what carrying a child actually looked or felt like gnawed at her. Her imagination told her there would be a certain sensation in her belly or some movement of a babe inside her; she would know it, she would feel it.

The only thing she was certain about was that the monthly bleeding would cease to appear - that had been the case, actually, but it told her nothing at all. She had never had it regularly. She knew it was supposed to come with every moon, but it had never had, appearing whenever it wanted, sometimes every fortnight, sometimes every few months. She had always suspected she had been broken - something in her body must have been failing, and she could remain incomplete forever. Later on, she had started to be quite satisfied with that prospect - it could have meant no unwanted children with a Lannister or Baratheon house name. Months later, it had stopped being important: she had forgotten about it and stopped counting the days, no longer paying attention, up until this moment. Come to think of it, she hadn’t bled since before their wedding night. But again, it wasn’t anything out of ordinary. She wasn’t pregnant. No, it was not the right answer. She would just know it.

Deciding to visit the maester for some advice on her current ailments, she pushed the thoughts away, wishing to finally come back home.

The castle welcomed her back gladly, and Sansa couldn’t help but smile widely at the sight of it. In the last weeks she hadn’t thought about Winterfell not feeling like home even once; stepping through the gates definitely felt like home, her safe haven, a shelter against the coming storms. The walls were familiar, the people were mostly known, and every place here had been engraved deep in her heart and soul. Even the air felt different.

It was home.

They arrived long after the sun had set - the days were becoming much shorter already - so she immediately secluded herself in her chamber, and laid heavily on her bed. The last nights spent in various inns hadn't been exactly uncomfortable, and she hadn’t had much trouble sleeping next to her husband, especially in beds big enough she hadn’t even felt his presence physically, but nothing was quite as right as Winterfell and her own chamber.

Because Winterfell was and will always be her home, and nothing could ever change it.

The following morning welcomed Sansa with a headache, reminding her of the need to ask for Wolkan’s advice. She would probably seek his company either way - they had to come back to their work, and she wanted to know how the repairs and restocking had gone during their absence.

Allowing herself a moment of lingering in her bed, she thought about changes that had taken place since their departure, changes inside her. She felt wiser and less idealistically inclined than before, a new, more realistic view of the world replacing the old one. She was able to see beyond her needs for revenge, realizing there was a much bigger picture at stake here, and finally dismounting from her high horse; now, she viewed the Northern problems much clearer, truly understanding their roots. From other matters, she felt more comfortable around her husband nowadays, and it seemed like her plan was going quite well. Someone looking at them from the outside would have thought they had mutual trust between them, established long ago.

But the world had changed not only inside her - she could hear her father saying “Winter is coming” right to her ear. The weather had never been so harsh, deteriorating rapidly. Winter was truly coming, and nothing could be done to prevent it. On some days it even seemed Winter was already there.

Sansa’s stomach suddenly demanded her undivided attention, forcing her to cut her musings short and prepare for the first Winterfell breakfast in what felt like ages.

At the table, she greeted Roose like usual. The longer they went without him addressing her by her given name, the more convinced she was it had happened only in her mind. Why wouldn’t he use it again, her own name against her, if he had seen the power it had over her? It wasn't like him, or at least not _him_ she believed to already know.

Sansa gazed down at her breakfast and discovered she was no longer hungry for normal food, but for something much more specific, something she had missed since the Eyrie. The plate before her looked rather dull and uninviting, and her appetite was lost.

“If you preferred the peasant's stew, the cook can make you one.”

She glanced up at Roose, her stare almost deadly.

“Thank you, I’ll manage with what I have.” She sent him a forced smile and continued to move her food around the plate with a fork. Then, she thought she could share her sensations with him - it would cost her nothing at all while being pretty familial, therefore expanding their “trust”. “But to tell you the truth, I feel like eating only lemon cakes right now,” she confessed, spearing a chunk of meat and staring at it in stubborn defiance.

“The North will be starving soon enough, and you want... lemon cakes?” She looked up at him again; he was observing her from above his cup of water, his brows moving higher in disbelief.

“I can’t help it.” Sansa shrugged and cut into her meat. “I lately have these... tastes for things. Random cravings. They just… appear and disappear as they please.” Digging into her meal, she still felt his eyes on her, and as she stared back at him his gaze seemed even more observant than it usually was. Something changed as he put down his cup and scrutinized her like he saw her for the first time in his life, assessing her in a manner similar to that of their wedding night.

“Is something wrong?” she asked uneasily, blushing despite herself.

That change only progressed: a spark appeared in his eyes, making them brighter, much livelier than ever before. And then he smiled at her.

He _smiled_.

The shock almost made her choke on her food. It wasn’t a smirk she had seen many times already or an artificial so-called smile he sometimes used with other lords. It was a genuine smile, the likes of which she hadn’t thought he was even capable of forming.

“What?” she insisted, suddenly alarmed, no longer caring for any unnecessary courtesy. She had to find out the answer, because something important was apparently happening and she did not know what it was, the desperation eating her alive.

“I’ll see what we can do about these lemon cakes,” he replied without actually answering, stood up, and, still smiling, planted a fleeting kiss on her forehead. She gazed up at him, her eyes wide with wonder. His own irises were sparkling, glistening in the winter sun seeping through the windows, and there seemed to be an emotion hidden somewhere behind the first layer of paleness. She briefly noticed they looked beautiful this way.

That emotion… Could it be... joy? Could it be…

No... It couldn’t be...

“Go to the maester, Sansa.”

He took a step back and she just nodded, once again mesmerized by the sound of her name. It hadn’t been a dream, she had heard it before - it had a tremendous power over her right now as well.

He looked at her for a while and then left her at the table, heading in the direction of the kitchens. She stared wide-eyedly in his wake, dumbfounded over whatever the hell had just happened.

But she already knew what it was, didn’t she? Deep down, she had probably known for quite some time already but hadn’t let it reach her conscious mind, denying the possibility with all her might.

Roose had connected the dots and reached some conclusions, conclusions satisfactory to him. She hadn’t shared her afflictions with him, but most of them could have been seen, especially that during their journey they had often shared a bed. He already knew their cause.

Something twisted in her as she gazed down at her belly, flat, silent, unanswering her unasked question.

Yes, she definitely had to see Maester Wolkan. Right now.

Abandoning her barely touched meal, she jumped to her feet and marched decidedly to Wolkan’s study. In front of his doors, she tried her best to convince her guards she needed to talk with the maester alone as the matter was deeply intimate and medical, even using threats, but to no avail. If the circumstances were different and she didn’t need an answer in the nearest seconds, she would never relent; the situation demanded the quickest resolution, though. And so she yielded, agreeing on the presence of one of them inside, not even caring much about it. She just needed to know. 

After a tentative knock at the door and hearing an invitation Sansa walked inside, her heart somewhere in her throat, the rush of blood in her ears effectively muffling almost all other sounds. 

“Lady Sansa!” Wolkan greeted her with a smile; it looked like he missed her presence the same way she missed his. “I was just wondering whether you’d want to go back to work immediately!"

“Actually, that’s not why I’m here.” She gazed up at him hesitantly, unsure of how to proceed. “May I?” She gestured at the chair near the desk.

“Of course, my lady.” Wolkan perched on the adjacent chair and waited for her to start.

Swallowing the bile that grew in her throat, Sansa slowly recounted all of the sensations her body had experienced since the day of the mygrayn. She felt like a fool but proceeded nonetheless. Once she ended her speech, she bit down on her lip and gazed down, unable to look him in the eyes. That was not the matter when she could be strong, either truly or just by pretending - it was something beyond her, something she had no idea how to process or react to. This time, with the maester, she could allow herself not to be strong for the shortest moment.

“My lady...” His voice was soft as he gently took her hands in his. She looked up and saw he was smiling at her in a way that probably conveyed all the emotions such situations might induce. Most of all, the smile was soft, comforting, uplifting, but also... sad? Pitying? For a moment it took her breath away, almost sounding like a confirmation of her suspicions.

She had known it, hadn’t she?

“If I may ask... when was the last time you’ve bled?” 


	15. Say My Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the revelation, Sansa has a lot to think about. And then discover some pleasures she didn't know before...
> 
> I was truly overjoyed by the response to the last chapter, thank you all so much! <3 I hope you'll like this one just as much! Special thanks to MarieCheryl for the inspiration for the title, and to Tommyginger, because our conversation resulted in some new paragraphs added to the chapter! 
> 
> Enjoy and take care! Love you all! <3

The weather was particularly in tune with Sansa’s emotions that day. Heavy snowfall left the thick layer of white on every possible surface while the wind swirled, playing with her hair, her locks moving in a frenzy around her head. The godswood was much quieter; the wind seemed calmer, and the trees sheltered the ground from the excessive amount of snow. The storm in Sansa's mind raged the same.

This time, her soldiers had been considerate enough to allow her some space; they guarded her from the distance, still having her in their sight, but making it hard for her to notice them. She didn't care, her mind occupied with other things entirely. She needed to think and vent; the godswood seemed like the only proper place to do that. Not that she had given it any thought - her legs had brought her here without asking for her conscious opinion. Even if they had asked, there would have been no answer: she wasn't able to focus on anything else rather than the revelation from moments ago. 

Sansa slid down the weirwood tree, closing her eyes. She had come here so often as a child, dreaming her childish dreams of golden-haired princes and princesses she would mother, praying for an escape from her fate as a northern daughter of a northern lord.

Now, there was no prayer left in her. Now, she was with child herself. A child that will definitely not be a golden-haired prince of her dreams, but a true Northerner, born to the two most powerful houses of the entire North. 

Because of the previous irregularities of her monthly bleedings, the maester couldn’t have established how far in the pregnancy she exactly was; he could have only guessed on the third or fourth moon. Sansa suspected the child had been conceived at the very beginning of their marriage. If her body wasn’t broken - and currently everything suggested otherwise - what would have stopped that from happening as early as their wedding night?

The cold spread from the ground, infecting every fiber of her body; it forced her to jump to her feet and start circling the heart tree instead. Her mind still wasn't ready to focus on the future, venturing to other aspects of the topic. 

She continued to feel like a fool for missing all of the now obvious signs of her condition, but there were arguments justifying her obliviousness. Of course, she had been aware it had to happen eventually; there was only one ultimate result of a union between a man and a woman, and they had been uniting rather frequently. It was unavoidable, but she had always pushed that thought aside, choosing consciously to ignore it.

As a young girl, she had never actually wondered how it was happening. The teachings had been very vague and dire and she couldn’t have even comprehended what sounded like a universal truth - if the act itself joined a man and a woman forever as husband and wife, sealing their so-called love, how could it be painted as something so unholy? Especially that its final fruit could be a babe? She had always thought there had to be something divine in that whole unholiness, in that connection of two souls. There had been a pattern in her head: a wedding, a joining of bodies, a babe. She hadn’t cared about anything in between. When she had eventually started to wonder - and dread - there had already been no one to ask. Mother had been far away, Septa Mordane had been murdered - what information the septa would have given her either way - and other female figures around her had been impossible or improper to ask. Shae? Just a handmaiden, what would she have known? Margaery? Sansa would have sounded like a complete fool, and she had always valued their friendship. Cersei? The Queen Mother would have most probably laughed cruelly and shown her a grim future of Joffrey ripping the babes out of her open womb. All those years Sansa could have only overheard some things, but the shattered pieces of information she had managed to gather had never formed a complete whole, thus had never made much sense.

She hadn't known what happened to women’s bodies once they started growing babes in their bellies. The only thing the septa had told her about bearing a child was that it was her duty as the lady, and that the highest gift she could give her husband and herself was an heir. The whole period of carrying a babe was a woman's business, and the body changed so much she shouldn't be surprised if her lord husband wouldn't want to have much to do with it during those months. She should keep it all to herself and don't bother him with anything, because this wasn't a matter for him. Only the result mattered. A son was the highest joy; if it was a girl, she would have to try harder the next time. That was all she had ever heard. Would Roose detest her body now? She wasn't sure whether she wanted it or craved the contrary.

She wasn’t actually sure about anything at the moment. Wolkan had told her so much, promising to educate her even further if she had the need for it. The time for dreading the delivery was yet to come, so she felt more or less secured about the physical matters as for now. The emotional ones, however...

She had no idea how to feel.

That child was going to be a token of the ultimate union between the two strongest northern houses. If it was a boy, he would be an heir to the whole North. To Winterfell. A Bolton heir.

Sansa stopped her march and leaned her forehead against the tree, the rough surface of the bark somehow soothing her burning skin. Will she be able to love that child, forgetting about its roots and circumstances it had been brought into life, forgiving who fathered it? Will she be able to accept it as her own flesh and blood?

But it will be her own flesh and blood. First thing entirely hers to love, and to love her back unconditionally, without any threats of treason, without distrust, politics, or anything of the kind. Just pure love, untainted by the harsh world around them. Once upon a time, her child was supposed to be an assumed Baratheon, then a true Lannister. All in all, it will be a Bolton. Why should it matter, actually? It wasn't its fault. This child will be hers, and hers only, as much of a Stark as it was only possible. It will be a part of her, body and soul. Her time with Cersei had taught her a lot, and now Sansa hoped that what the Queen she hated so much had said about feelings towards a firstborn was true. She wanted it to be true. She wanted to deliver her healthy child, look at its tiny hands and feet, hold it in her arms, and love it with all her heart. The way Cersei had loved Joffrey. The way Sansa's mother had loved her firstborn. 

Now, Sansa will have her own Cat or Ned to love.

She uttered a short laugh as her eyes started watering. She was going to be a mother, in her childhood home at that - who would have ever thought? Her child might grow up within the very same walls as she had. Sadly, the world and the family it will be brought into would not be the same. No carefree childhood with loving parents, in safety, secure enough to live within the bubble of dreams. The world was dark and hostile, survival never a certain thing. There was no place for dreams in it; only the harsh reality remained. 

But... had that bubble been a good thing? They had grown up loved, cared for and sheltered from harm, yes, but what had they known afterwards, about life and the rules the world had been ruled by? Nothing, that was the truth. She had ventured into the wide cruel world filled with illusions; how different could their fate have turned out to be if she had known? No one had warned her, no one had told her what it all truly looked like. She had gone to King's Landing unaware. She had become a pawn in other people's games, unaware. She had stepped into her marriage chambers unaware, twice. And now she was going to be a mother, unaware still. 

That was an obvious flaw in her upbringing, and something she will have to think about carefully. But as for now, she promised herself and the little being inside her she would not follow the same path. Whatever was going to happen, she will not subject her child to the ridicule of the world and the cruelty of its inhabitants unprepared. She will not make the same mistakes as her parents had. 

As for the family her child will have... Roose’s reaction had been a proper one - he had to be glad, it had always been his ultimate goal. An heir who would solidify his position in the North. Most likely, it was the only reason for that joy-like emotion she had seen in his eyes. Knowing him pretty well by now, and considering his relationship with Ramsay, she doubted he was able to truly be a father. A menacing figure at the high table, yes, but not the kind she would wish for her child. Besides... this babe might prove to be her card to freedom. As a mother-to-be, she will evoke even more positive feelings in the people around her. She still had a few months to work on that. And when the time came... Maybe her child wasn’t even going to have a father. She will have him killed first thing after the birth and be free, the lords supporting her against Ramsay. It sounded like a quite solid plan now. 

The cold gnawed at her, and the snow managed to get her thoroughly soaked; it was high time to return to her chamber. She had already told Wolkan they wouldn’t be working today - her mind was much too disarranged to focus on any practical matter - so she had the rest of the day for herself only. Unless she would get a certain night visitor, which she suspected she would. To be fully honest with herself she had to admit that despite her previous thoughts she awaited the moment she would confirm Roose's suspicions with anticipation. She wanted to share the news and witness his final reaction - would she see that sparkling joy again, or the cold apathetic stone in its place? Would their marriage change now, or would it remain the same? 

Though that discovery made her uncomfortable, she realized she _wanted_ to see that joy once more, and maybe even the smile that had shocked her so much. She wished to see the reflection of her emotions in someone else, and there was only one candidate for it. The chances were almost non-existent, but the hope for something like that occurring was alive and well. There was a pleasant tension in her belly once her mind imagined that scene, along with the deep itch between her legs that appeared soon after. Immediately blaming it on the pregnancy, Sansa quickly walked to her chamber, trying to suppress all the physical sensations that arose in the last moments. Now was not the time. 

The chamber was peaceful and quiet, though the wind still whirled in her ears. It was almost disturbing how different she felt now compared to the moment barely a few hours prior when she had left the room to attend breakfast. Like a completely new person she had to get to know first.

Hesitantly, Sansa approached the mirror and stared back at her reflection. On the outside, nothing had changed. Slowly unlacing her gown, she let her clothing tumble down onto the floor and analyzed her naked body. Even though her stomach was flat, there seemed to be something different about it. More... womanly. Her breasts looked slightly fuller than before; she grazed them with her fingers experimentally and felt the dense flesh underneath. One accidental brush against her nipple and she gasped, the fire returning immediately. So that was why she had felt so much more lately, oversensitive in general. She stared at herself for quite some time, appraising her body, getting to know the slightly different curves and edges. Then, she clothed herself in her nightgown and sat down on the bed, thinking. 

What was it going to be: a boy or a girl? The distinction was important for every lady but seemed so much more in her case. The boy was of course expected, and might give her greater power, greater freedom; it also meant much higher risk. The obvious danger was the half-brother her child will have - Ramsay wouldn’t care much about having a sister; brother, on the other hand, meant he would lose everything. Put in this position, the bastard won’t hesitate to act.

Sansa felt cold dread rushing through her entire being: a son she would bear was going to be in the greatest peril from the very beginning of his life, or maybe even earlier than that. Ramsay wasn't the only threat: all the enemies of House Bolton - and there were plenty - and House Stark alike could wish to hurt her. From the moment the news will get out, her safety would be more fragile than ever before. Sansa's mind conjured an image of raging Cersei, sending an assassin to Winterfell to bring an end to her, and she shuddered from fear and wrath. The wisest thing would be to hide it as long as possible, and maybe, at least for the time being, further lessen the number of enemies of House Bolton for their safety, however peculiar that sounded. She needed to talk to Roose about that and demand some better protection. Maybe Brienne of Tarth could come to her aid now?

No, that was foolish. The trust issues were still present, and besides, Roose would never allow her to have a personal knight who could strike him down at any given moment. No, that just won’t do.

There were a few things she knew for sure, however - no harm would come to her at her husband's hands while she was carrying his babe, and he should care for the child's well-being just as much as she did. It had to be crucial to him if he wanted to keep House Bolton alive and in power. So this time their goals truly conjoined, without any pretending or games. That child had to be a priority, for the future of their houses and their country alike. 

Sansa lay down on her back, staring at the ceiling. Thousand thoughts and questions were still rushing through her head, about everything at once. How will the rest of her pregnancy go? How will Roose take it? What will the delivery look like? If she got to be free after it, what would she do? What will her child be then? If it was a girl, she could eventually marry and forget her roots. Being Sansa Stark’s daughter, she shouldn’t have much trouble finding a husband. A boy would have it much worse. He would always be a Bolton, no matter what he would do, how hard he would try to escape it.

There will be no escape for him.

Sansa didn’t even notice when the tiredness embraced her, and soon sleep overcame her, bringing peace to her troubled mind.

She woke up to the sight of those pale eyes she had already known so well, and it didn’t startle her.

“I took the liberty of coming inside, given you didn’t answer,” Roose informed Sansa as she blinked rapidly, trying to chase the weariness away.

“That’s quite alright,” she answered, sitting up. It was already dark outside, the hearth the only source of light in the chamber. Her eyes needed a while to adjust to the dimness; when they did, she gazed at him more consciously. He was sitting at a chair near the bed dressed in a thin cloak and observed her casually, or so it seemed.

As expected, he had come to hear her confirmation. Looking at him as he was waiting, silently asking her for the truth, Sansa felt the familiar surge of power rushing through her. Everything depended on her words now, on _her body_ , to be more exact. With one sentence, one gesture, she could make his goals come closer to the realization or crush them completely. It felt good to be the master of someone's future. Almost too good. 

Turning around and moving closer to the edge of the bed, she sat down on her heels, so she was now directly facing him, and took his hands in hers. It was a perfect moment for further fake-bonding, wasn't it? She should use it the best she could. Tracing his palms with her fingertips, contemplating what they felt like and why she hadn’t truly touched him before, she finally spoke up.

“I went to the maester, per your advice.” She fell silent for a while, busy following the lines on his palms. It felt surprisingly good to touch him, and to tease him with her silence - she could sense his growing impatience, and barely contained a smirk.

“And?” He finally nudged her, closing her hands within his. Gods, she had truly managed to move a rock here, stirring something in him, making him yearn for the truth!

She looked up at him, completely composed and calm, perfectly hiding the sense of victory that filled her from within. 

“He confirmed what, I believe, you’ve already noticed,” she said, staring right into his eyes and marveling how slightly on edge they seemed. She liked it when she looked at him and saw a human being, and not an impassive, emotionless statue. “I am with child. Third or fourth moon.”

He freed one of his hands and lifted it to her cheek, gently caressing it, slightly absent-mindedly as well. Were they to have this conversation immediately after her talk with Wolkan, or had she not known he had noticed, she would feel too vulnerable to have any conversation. Right now, she kinda felt he was the more vulnerable one. Even though his face was as expressionless as always, his eyes were not, and she had known him well enough already to notice all the small details. The ways he squeezed her hands or caressed her cheek spoke relief; maybe he had been waiting so long for it he actually felt true joy at hearing he was going to have a true-born descendant, and no longer had to count on his deranged bastard? Or maybe men always felt rather awkward with something they couldn’t quite comprehend that was completely beyond their area of expertise?

There was also a third option, that it was all just a show put up for her, but she chose to believe otherwise, at least for the time being. She wasn’t able to fake much at the moment, too many emotions swirling inside her; somehow, she hoped it was the same with him.

His thumb slowly outlined her lips and she shuddered at the implication of that: he had never even touched her mouth before. It made her convinced this night was going to be like nothing she had ever experienced, her anticipation growing. She was curious, sensing it had the potential to amount to something truly spectacular.

"And how do you feel about it?" he asked, his thumb sliding down to her jaw.

How did she feel about it right now? Good, that was the truth.

"I'm glad," she answered. No need to pretend. He gazed at her for a moment, this stare of his reaching deep into her soul, seeking the truth. “How do you feel about it?” She decided to return the question, looking at him with the same intensity. 

The corners of his mouth turned upwards in a smile, the second genuine smile she had seen on his face in the four-month-duration of their marriage, and it was the second she had seen this day.

"The same as you.” And just like that, she believed him. He didn’t hide it well enough, or maybe he had never intended to; either way, it felt true. His thumb returned to her lips, and for a moment he stared at her mouth. Her breath quickened in anticipation for whatever was to come. “You're tense, my lady," he finally murmured. She could tell him he was tenser than her but didn’t want to argue at the moment. "Turn around."

She did as she was told, her pulse rising. His hands traveled up her arms until they landed on her shoulder muscles. As he started to massage them she realized he was right - even though she was calm and restrained on the outside, her body was beyond tense. The pressure he inflicted with his fingers made that tension diminish, and soon she was leaning into the touch. She moaned softly, involuntarily closing her eyes, her body bending towards him until she felt his frame strongly behind her own, securing her so she wouldn’t fall from the bed.

She wasn't expecting it when one of his hands traveled down, underneath her nightgown and found her right breast; it was impossible to contain a yelp of surprise as she felt the touch on her already hardened nipple. Roose had never taken an interest in her breasts, not until this very moment. And suddenly she wished he had. His left hand was still massaging her muscles as the other one enclosed her breast and gave earnest attention to it, sending shivers down her spine, straight to her core. She mewled, her eyes closed, the rest of the world and its worries disappearing from her mind's view. It didn't surprise her when his other hand repeated the journey and took care of her left breast; what elicited another loud moan was that his right hand drew lower, stopping only after reaching her folds. She was completely at his mercy, basically sitting on his lap with her back pressed tightly against his chest, feeling his growing hardness against her rear. His fingers unceremoniously buried themselves inside her, his thumb circling the bud that always made her burn the most. His lips brushed against the side of her neck, perfectly angled for him to admire given her head was tilted to the side in abandon; he started kissing and sucking along the lines of her veins. His breath at her skin made her shiver, and she could only hold onto him and give in to all the sensations. And they were too much, there was too much of everything, and before long she came with a wild cry, riding her release on his fingers until there was nothing left of it. Only then did he remove them from her and, as she watched morbidly mesmerized, brought them to his lips to lick them clean. There was something fascinatingly unholy in this act and she shuddered, nowise from shame.

She caught herself staring at his lips, and he noticed it as well, his observant eyes scrutinizing her face. Before she realized what exactly was going to happen it was already too late to stop him; in her haze, however, she doubted she would even try. Moreover, she thought she… _wanted_ it.

Their lips met for the first time and she immediately felt herself responding. She had been kissed by Joffrey and Petyr, but it had felt nothing like _that_. _That_ had clear intentions. _That_ had fire, radiating from both sides. Roose held her strongly against him, his hand landing on the juncture between her neck and jaw, his thumb caressing her cheek as their lips fought for domination until she lost, allowing him to slip his tongue inside her, allowing him to take over. The kiss wasn’t long, yet managed to leave her breathless when he finally withdrew. She stared down at his mouth, panting, and he watched her silently, still caressing her cheek. 

Sansa knew exactly what she needed. And she needed more.

After turning around to properly straddle him, she cupped his face and, holding her breath, lowered her mouth to meet his own. He tasted with winter, his lips much softer than she would have ever given them credit for, his masculine scent making her heady. She enjoyed all of that way more than she was willing to admit. Her tongue darted into his mouth as she made some explorations of her own. Her hands landed on his nape, his embraced her at her waist, pulling her closer, pushing their bodies tighter together.

Somehow, it felt much more intimate than anything else they had been doing to this day. The kiss burnt into her soul with shame, for so many different reasons. There was a peculiar aftertaste on her exploring tongue, and she could only guess it came from her own juices, which made her flush even more prominent. It didn't stop her from kissing him, though; on the contrary, she continued doing it with fervor like she was making up for all those months she hadn't known what his lips felt like. He responded just as eagerly; she could sense it through the material of his breeches, his thick length pressing against her bare core and driving her insane.

She gasped as he lifted her, her legs immediately wrapping around his hips, and threw her onto the bed, looming over her in an instant, never stopping kissing her until the air suddenly ended and they were forced to part. Breathing hard she quickly reached to deprive him of his outer clothing; as he unclasped his cloak, her hands found their way underneath his tunic and started desperately taking it off him. He threw it behind him with little thought, while she stopped for a moment, realizing she had never seen him fully bare. And he was quite a sight - well-developed muscles indicating a strong body she knew he had, with quite a number of scars as a decoration. Her fingertips traveled them slowly, in an unhidden fascination. She was slightly tempted to kiss them, but as she looked up all the thoughts dissipated. His eyes were dark, dark with lust, probably darker than she had ever seen them.

It didn’t scare her; moreover, she thought hers looked exactly alike.

He helped her get rid of her nightgown, and once again she was completely naked, spread in front of him, while he was half-dressed, this time the other half than usual. He kissed her as passionately as before and she groaned into his lips, bucking her hips as she felt his clothed manhood brushing against her bare nether regions with his every move. She suspected he would either enter her immediately or proceed to pleasure her _there_ , but he did nothing of that sort; his mouth started traveling down her body, kissing her neck, her collar bones, stopping at her breasts. As her nipples were licked, nipped, and kissed she all but melted into the touch, her hands in his short hair, pulling him even closer than he already was. 

She was uttering all kinds of sounds at his ministrations until, finally, _it_ slipped. She had planned for it to slip, sooner or later, but now it wasn’t planned. It just slipped.

_“Roose.”_

His name, coming from her mouth in a ragged whisper, barely hearable.

Oh, but he heard it well enough.

She mewled as he stopped entirely and, leaning on his elbows on either side of her, looked up at her, and she could swear his eyes were blazing pits of fire this time. She was breathing hard, wishing nothing more but for him to resume his doings, staring at him bravely, undeterred. He was her husband, she had every right to address him by his given name, just like he had done it with her twice already.

“Say it again,” he ordered, and she yelped as his finger entered her abruptly in one swift move.

“Roose,” she panted, staring right back at him.

“Louder.” Another finger joined.

“Roose.” It was spoken loudly, but apparently not loud enough.

“Scream it,” he demanded as his fingers pumped rather furiously in and out of her, his mouth returning to her breasts. And she came, screaming his name at the top of her lungs.

She didn’t even have any time to recover before he finally lost his breeches and entered her up to the hilt. As he started thrusting her legs wrapped around his hips to allow him deeper access, while her hands pulled him down for a kiss, demanded it. And he kissed her in fervor, first on the lips, then everywhere he could reach, with her arching and writhing beneath him. Their bodies moved against one another in perfect harmony, and for the first time she truly felt joined as one with him.

They didn’t need long, and came together; she was too exhausted to scream anymore, so this time it was a silent peak, with him grunting into her shoulder.

He remained sheathed inside her as they tried to regain their breathing. Only then did he ease out of her and gently disentangled from her legs, which she didn’t even realize were still wrapped around him.

She must have been a sight to behold as she was lying there with a satiated smile on her lips, beads of sweat on her forehead, her hair all around her in a complete mess, because for a moment he was sitting on the bed, just staring at her.

“My lady.” He ended the tryst with his usual words, but with a wandering smirk on his lips. She watched him, still panting, as he stood up and gathered his scattered clothes, for the first time seeing him whole, as the gods made him. Gods, or rather demons? At the moment, she didn’t really care, just enjoying the sight.

He dressed up slowly, then returned his attention to her, still drunk from the satiation. Taking some abandoned fur from the chest, he covered her with it and left a parting kiss on her lips.

“Sleep well, Sansa.”

And so she did. 


	16. Closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keeping the safety of her child a priority, as her pregnancy progresses Sansa realizes some urges won't just go away on their own... 
> 
> It's a tough December for me, and I'm glad I could post the chapter before 24th, so I could wish you all Merry Christmas! I hope you can have some wonderful - and safe - time, despite everything that's happening all around us. Merry Christmas and a wonderful New Year's Eve, my dear Readers! <3 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the new chapter!

Sansa woke up in the morning blissfully sore. Snippets of the last night started coming back to her in an instant, making her stretch in a lingering delight. If she thought she had met pleasure before, she had been deeply mistaken. She hadn't known pure bliss, not until last night. From that moment on, nothing would remain the same. Her lips wanted to be kissed and to kiss, to feel her husband's mouth against them. Her breasts needed to be cherished, refusing to be neglected again. Her whole body burnt to be touched, and, what surprised her, her fingers wished to touch as well.

Some sort of happiness radiated from her belly, bustling in her veins. Lying her hands on her stomach, she smiled at herself, remembering all the new sensations, wishing to feel them again as soon as possible. Roose could have pleasured her like that from the very beginning but had chosen to deny her some elements up until the last night. He should be punished for such vileness, unfair treatment of his fair lady.

She stiffened upon realizing what she had just thought. Happiness? Vileness for denying her certain pleasures? Roose was a vile man, there was no doubt about it, but that definitely was not the reason.

_Get a grip_ , she scolded herself firmly. _You hate him for so many things, remember?_

No matter how hard she tried to steer away from that positiveness, she couldn’t, and finally gave up. Maybe it will be good for the babe if its mother would be satisfied with her life, at least for a while. The lines could never be blurred beyond recognition for sure: she will always remember, the North will always remember. There was no danger in letting herself experience a little joy, especially a physical one. She deserved it.

There was a fourth soldier at her door, unknown to her, and she welcomed him cheerfully into her company. Contrary to the other guards, that one seemed more pleasant and returned her smile a little sheepishly. Or maybe it was just her good mood that made her see everything through the veil of her own joy. Either way, it reminded her of the safety-related matters she needed to discuss with Roose - apparently, he had thought about them as well.

She couldn’t help but smile all the way to the Great Hall, almost expecting something to suddenly happen and destroy her cheer. Like Ramsay's presence at breakfast, or some dreadful news from the outside world.

Nothing like that occurred, and she reached the chamber in the same high spirits as upon waking up, greeting Roose with a beam.

Truly, she couldn’t recognize herself. Maybe it was all because of the babe growing within her. Yes, probably this was the reason - it was changing her from the inside, and she could do nothing about it. Surely it was the only cause.

“Lady Sansa.” Roose welcomed her with a small smile of his own and a glint in his eyes, her name on his lips sounding as thrilling as ever.

“Roose.” She took the liberty of calling him this way; she rather liked how it rolled off her tongue, smooth and sensual. The spark in his eyes told her he liked it as well. Maybe that could be some other power of her over him? Could it be that her calling him by his name had the same effect on him as the opposite situation had on her? Recalling his reaction the last night when she had used it for the first time, she concluded it seemed highly likely.

“You look rather... happy,” he noticed, the smile replaced by a smug smirk, as he probably attributed all of her joy to himself and their recent activities.

A vile man indeed.

“Because I am,” she answered, looking at him with a gentle touch to her gaze. Her body still radiated the heat of the last night, immediately reacting to the sight of him, the one who had brought her over the edge so many times already. It was no longer the work of some unnamed lips and fingers, but her husband's, _Roose_ as she herself had addressed him. She might have acknowledged that fact before, but it was only now that she truly accepted and embraced it. “We are going to have a babe,” she added bashfully, determined to check if his reactions had been only a one-time thing or were here to stay.

“That we are.” Once again, this peculiar smile of his brightened his features. Maybe smiling didn’t truly befit him, but when he did it he looked younger, livelier, and Sansa liked it profusely.

“Speaking of which...” she started, but then accidentally gazed down at the table and went speechless at the sight before her. “How did you...” There, on the plate, were lemon cakes; the very same ones she adored so much, the very same ones Roose had almost promised her the other day. She had managed to forget about it entirely, so many things had happened since the last morning; he, apparently, had not.

“There were some lemons in the goods you got from White Harbor. I only told the cooks to make you those,” he explained, his tone casual, like it was nothing.

It probably was nothing, but for her, at the moment at least, it was a lot. She stared at him wide-eyedly, that smallest act of... care making her breathless. He had not only _heard_ her but also _listened_ to her needs; suddenly, she truly felt like she had just returned home, and found here a family that was interested in her fate. Those were some dangerous feelings, the likes of which she definitely shouldn’t direct towards her husband.

But at the moment, she definitely did.

“Thank you,” she managed to utter, the words heavy in her throat. _Get a grip_ , she repeated to her stubborn mind once more, hoping this time it would actually listen to her. _It's only a show, and nothing more._ “It means a lot.”

“You’re very welcome.” She tried hard to convince herself it was only to gain her trust, as usual in their game, his care feigned; it didn’t work. “You were saying...?”

“Y-yes.” She cleared her throat and came back to the topic, trying to focus on what will surely be the most important thing in her mind for months to come. “I was going to talk to you about it last night, but we engaged in some other... highly enjoyable activities.” She blushed heavily but did her best not to avert her gaze. That smug smirk was his only answer once again. “What I mean is the safety of our future heir.” She was speaking quietly, so no one besides him would hear her. The servants brought them the plates with breakfast, forcing Sansa to pause. She noticed her meal was significantly larger than before, even without the lemon cakes.

“You need to eat well now that you’re feeding two people,” Roose explained once there was no one else around the table.

Sansa nodded, realizing his slight obsession with her eating habits will increase tenfold now that she was carrying the future of his house inside her. She didn’t truly mind.

She wasn’t going to start eating, though, not before they had that conversation. Her stare was solemn as she continued, “I understand we’ll keep it between us as long as it’s only possible.” The only people besides them already knowing about her pregnancy were Wolkan and one of her guards; she was sure they will keep it quiet, if not for her sake, then for the fear of being flayed alive. 

“That would be the wisest.”

“A lot of people won’t like it. A lot of people will wish to hurt me, hurt us.” Sansa stopped herself from protectively caressing her belly at the last moment. That was a dangerous gesture to be making in public. 

“I won’t let them,” Roose cut her off, and somehow, she believed him.

“I know you'll try. But there are so many enemies that you won't be able to shelter us from them all.” And there was this one particular enemy, too close to home to not dread him the most. “And what about Ramsay?”

“What about him?” Even though the complete impassiveness was back on his face, she could sense him stiffening.

“He will hate it the most. It’s a threat to everything he was trying to build and the ultimate strike to his ambitions. He has to know that if it’s a boy, he’ll lose it all.” He will, won’t he? For a moment she thought about something she hadn’t considered before - what if Ramsay remained Roose’s firstborn in his mind and despite everything would get to keep his legacy because Roose would choose it? It sounded absurd, but she had to take every possibility into account. Or maybe Ramsay will be kept in a back row, always being there “just in case” - if their babe wasn’t a boy, if something happened to it, by accident or intentionally...

“He’ll keep the Dreadfort as for now.” _As for now._ So ultimately, everything will belong to her son? As for now, she couldn’t care less for the Dreadfort.

“But he’ll want more, we both know he will. And he won’t stop at nothing to get it.” She decided to pull some ultimate strings. “Roose, please.” The firm use of his name got combined with a dramatic grasp of his hand, resting on the table not far from her. “I want our child to be born, and to actually survive some time here.”

“I want it as much as you do.” He gazed down at their joined hands as she squeezed them tighter together. “What is it exactly that you’re asking me to do?”

He knew exactly what it was, didn’t he? Sansa only hoped the manipulation wasn’t too obvious, and that it sounded like the natural concerns of a mother-to-be.

“I would never ask a father to murder his son,” she said quietly, her voice filled with emotions. Good acting on her part - of course she would ask, and that was what she had been doing. She couldn’t say it, though. Her observations aside, she could not be perfectly certain Roose wished his bastard dead. If he didn’t, by saying too much she might ruin whatever good relations they had lately managed to build, and she didn’t want that, for a variety of reasons. “I’m merely asking you to keep a watchful eye on him. More watchful than before.” 

“I am keeping a watchful eye on him, and I will continue doing it. You may sleep well, my lady, Ramsay won’t pose a threat.” She scrutinized his eyes with a slight distrust, asking herself whether she should demand a definite answer as to who he would choose if it came to that. But it was senseless, wasn’t it? A trueborn always meant so much more than a bastard. And besides, what guarantee she had he would tell her the truth? “I’ll see to it.” 

He squeezed her hand back and for a moment they just stared at each other. Then, she nodded and returned her attention to her plate. She didn’t feel fully satisfied, but she couldn’t push it any further. And she knew he hadn’t lied while telling her he wanted their safety just as much as she did. Without her, his claim to the North would weaken and probably vanish into some lethal nothingness. With their child, the claim would be more secure than ever before. 

She was carrying a means to his ultimate victory inside her, or so it surely looked like in his mind.

After the meal, they walked together to their studies, where they parted ways in their usual courteous manner. Inside the chamber, Sansa found Maester Wolkan waiting for her with a book and some information. The tome looked rather old and worn out, but seemed to come alive with all the knowledge contained within it. Wolkan explained it was a source of wisdom concerning pregnancies; not written for the ladies, of course, but he was giving it to her nonetheless to help her understand the changes in her body and feel better about her current condition.

That was a kind gesture and she thanked him for it wholeheartedly. They had talked a lot about it the other day, but as with everything else, there was probably still so much to learn. And it would be nice to know what was going on with her body - and mind - for once.

The information he brought her was also quite positive - she had some Northerners to listen to. She had hoped people would be more encouraged to come after their journey around the neighborhood, but she hadn't dared to think it could happen so soon.

Leaving her study to meet them some time later, Sansa felt rather... joyful. Though she didn’t want to admit it even to herself, her life no longer seemed bleak and dreary. She had things to look forward to.

And she was more than glad about it.

The next couple of weeks were a complete disaster.

Every pregnancy-related ailment Sansa had experienced seemed to multiply and bother her to the point of being almost unbearable. Maybe it worsened because now she knew the signs and listened to her body more intently, or maybe it was supposed to be like that - the maester could not give her a definite answer, claiming every lady went through it differently.

The headaches were a common occurrence, alongside the dizziness and tremendous tiredness - the only thing she wanted to do was to stay in her bed the whole day. Her appetites continued to vary: during one breakfast she was ready to eat a small pig, while the morning after a small meal she somehow managed to push down her throat ended up in a basket moments later. Her breasts were sore and tender, her body hostile. She didn’t have the strength to do anything, and she had to do so much - the Northerners were coming, lords were sending letters, ledgers needed to be checked and the builders overseen. Wolkan was helping her as much as he could, but when she basically collapsed from mental and physical exhaustion upon returning to her chamber, she realized she had been overworking herself and it probably wasn’t the best course of action, given her current condition.

The next morning, Sansa demanded that Roose took over some of her duties, for their future son's sake. He agreed immediately, making her speechless. She was prepared for a heated fight, and instead, she started feeling like she could request anything and he would give it to her. It was empowering, and as with every power, easy to lose herself in it, and Sansa had to be especially careful as not to let her guards down too much.

This one argument - simple and truthful at that - seemed to change a lot of things for the better. As time went by, she realized her previous thoughts had been true: whatever she needed was given to her, whatever she asked for was granted. She had never thought all it would take to truly wrap Roose around her finger was to get pregnant. It seemed far easier than she had anticipated. 

And she felt good about it. Powerful. In charge.

During those weeks she also finally got her definite answer on whether she could refuse Roose’s rights to her body. Maybe it shouldn’t matter that much now, given his seed had already done the job, but it was still important for her. Her initial desire for the constant repeat of that night they had found out she was with child quickly vanished as she simply was too tired to even imagine it, the only energy she had left used up to get her to sleep. Roose was usually finding her like that - curled beneath her furs, barely able to mumble she didn’t have enough strength to move. The first time, she managed to add she would appreciate it if he left her alone; later on, she stopped bothering. He had never exploited her condition, only sometimes planting a fleeting kiss on her forehead. Once on her lips, because she turned around and pulled him closer, her mouth thirsty for the touch. He kissed her darkly, strongly, and normally it would be more than enough to make her burn; in her current state, tired and sore from simply _being_ , the fire barely flickered. And so she smiled sweetly, told him goodnight, and turned her back to him. 

He never stayed.

After a fortnight he stopped paying her his nightly visits. Or maybe she was already fast asleep when he did; she couldn’t be quite sure as her eyelids were too heavy to keep them open once her head touched the pillows. She found herself slightly missing seeing his face right before falling asleep. She got used to his melodic “sleep well, Sansa” and the paleness of his eyes saying its own goodbye, his warm, soft lips pressed against her skin. 

She blamed the pregnancy for all those feelings. For the sensations of needing the touch, of needing someone - or rather one particular _someone_ , of not wishing to be alone, for all those physical and emotional cravings. It wasn’t her, but the babe inside her speaking and wishing.

Wolkan had told her once the second part of carrying a child was usually better, and now claimed she was most probably on the brink of it. Some afflictions will go away, while others will diminish; in general, her spirits should improve. She couldn’t wait for that moment to finally arrive, so she would stop being a prisoner of her own body and feel more like herself.

Slowly and steadily, day by day, the maester’s words started coming true. Sansa stopped vomiting and as nausea subsided, her appetites grew and from then on she truly started eating for two. The tiredness didn’t bother her so much anymore, and she got used to what was left of it. Her breasts felt like they belonged to her once again, and, as she stared at her belly long enough, she could swear it got slightly bigger already.

Definitely possessing much more life force, she greeted everyone with an energetic attitude. Some Northerners seemed slightly taken aback by her optimism in the face of the Long Night, but she couldn’t help it: she had just come back from feeling the worst to feeling the best, and there was no end to that cheer.

Her demeanor around Roose was just the same and she truly hoped he would resume his visits. To her profound disappointment, he did not. Her body developed not only a substantial appetite for more food but also some marital activities. After the night of pleasures, as she called it in her mind, there had been only two similar ones before her body refused to cooperate, and she found herself aching. It was some deep ache inside her, a longing for the touch, for all the sensations, for the fire to grow and reign over her. She needed it. She was desperate for it.

Finally, one night, when that itch was so strong she considered resolving it on her own, she snapped and made a decision. She needed him inside her and she was no longer ashamed to admit it. If he could have sought her out whenever he wanted to chase his pleasures, why shouldn’t it work for her as well? She was his lady wife, his _pregnant_ lady wife, and she was in need. Who was he to refuse?

Without calling for her handmaiden, she found a dress that was rather too thin for Winter but could be easily discarded, as there were only a few laces on its back. The cleavage reminded her of Margaery - it definitely wasn't Northern, not in the slightest. Sansa had crafted that gown as a fond remembrance, a reminiscence of things long past, never intending to wear it up until this moment. Wondering what her friend would say if she saw her right now, Sansa put on a fur and left the chamber.

Her guards gazed at her in surprise - it was a rather late hour for any voyages.

“Lead me to Lord Bolton’s chamber,” she said, slightly blushing at the realization she didn’t know which chamber her husband was occupying.

“Of course, my lady.” They didn’t ask any questions as they led the way, stopping at the door of her parents’ old chamber, guarded by two soldiers. Sansa smiled at them bashfully and, without further delay, knocked on the door herself.

She waited for a moment, her heart in her throat. She was excited and hoped he would grant her his assistance.

The door finally opened, revealing Roose in a thin tunic and breeches only. He gazed at her, and if he was surprised by her visit, he didn’t let it show.

“My lady.” He opened the door wider and gestured to her to come inside. She didn’t need another invitation.

It was indeed her parents’ chamber, though completely rearranged. She glanced at the bed and briefly wondered whether she herself hadn’t been created in the very same place. Blushing furiously, she quickly pushed the thought aside. She couldn’t ponder on her parents and whatever they could have been doing on this bed if she wanted to receive what she came here for.

As Roose closed the door behind her, she turned around, taking him in. Her eyes slid down his body until they reached the place she desired the most, her mouth going dry. The sheer sight of him with her added imagination was enough to inflame her lust. Had he always looked so good? And if so, how had she not noticed it before?

“I am in need,” she blurted, the fire blazing in her veins and clouding her better judgment. His brows went higher as he slowly approached her.

“Anything I can assist you with?” he asked casually, standing right in front of her.

“Yes.” Sansa unclasped her fur and let it fall to the floor, pooling at her feet. Although his face didn't change, she noticed his pupils dilating at the sight before him. Her enlarged breasts filled the gown completely, making the cleavage even more impressive. The revealing cut of it also helped clarify her intentions, if he suspected her of any foul play; was she to come with a weapon, she wouldn’t have a place to hide it.

“That’s a rather pretty dress,” he commented, his thumb going down her neck to the valley between her breasts, and then contouring the line where the material met her skin.

“I think I can do better without it,” she challenged him boldly and was rewarded with a smirk.

“I concur.”

His thumb slowly slid underneath her dress, brushing over her nipple, and she shuddered helplessly, the fire getting stronger. She couldn’t help it; her body needed his, and that was all it was about. Her eyes, wide open and trustful, stared into his pale ones, cautious, yet also already flaming with this nightly fire she could see only in the confines of her bedchamber. There was a wandering smirk on his lips as he looked back at her, his free hand going up to caress her cheek.

Somehow, for the first time, she realized they were exactly the same height; the absurdity of having such a revelation at the moment like that almost made her chuckle. In the daylight, she had always done her best to be his equal; in the darkness of the night, she had felt so, so small much too often.

Not today.

Her hazy gaze went down and lingered on his lips. He didn’t need another invitation, pulling her closer and sealing her mouth with a kiss. It still tasted with perdition, but she cast the thoughts aside; it wasn’t about what was moral or not anymore. It was about the urges her body had. And her body had a lot of urges at the moment.

Her hands landed on his nape and she gave herself completely into the kiss, her mouth opening, inviting his tongue inside. She could lose herself in it alone. His hands traveled down her back, stopping at her waist as he pulled her even closer; their hips crashed and through their clothes she could already feel him hardening. Her urges immediately cried out for more.

Once they parted for the lack of air, Sansa took a step back, her eyes sliding down as her hands leaned against his chest. Her fingers fumbled with the lacing of his tunic, but he didn’t rush her - or help her, for the matter - waiting patiently until she was done and would finally release him of it. Before she could think about the next move he spun her around and proceeded to remove her gown.

If she had thought it would come back to her room in the same state, she had been deeply mistaken as her husband ruined it entirely with one quick tear. She felt a sting of sadness - it was a rather pretty dress indeed - and almost asked how she would return to her chamber without proper attire, but the words vanished the moment his fingers returned to her skin. What were words if the only proper language right now was the one of desire? The unholy, sinful one the septas condemned at every single occasion; the thrilling, exciting, devouring one she found herself more and more fluent in.

He slipped the gown down her arms until it joined her fur at her feet; she didn’t turn around, waiting, breathing, expecting. The slightest touch of his fingers was enough to set her skin on fire - she wanted more, she needed more, she had to have more. Getting her hair out of the way, he kissed her neck while his hands traveled to her front and found the peaks of her breasts. She sighed contentedly and leaned her whole body against his frame, turning limp, surrendering to him entirely. He gave her breasts such a moment of undivided attention, after which he turned her around once more. She stared at him, her lips slightly parted, her insides burning, her mind realizing something that in other circumstances might have terrified her to the bone.

She _trusted_ him.

He took her by the hand and led her to the bed, but before she could lie down on the furs he sat down on the edge himself and pulled her onto his lap. She wrapped her limbs around him and for a moment just breathed, staring at him, overwhelmed by such a level of intimacy. Somehow, it had never felt so close, so... vulnerable, tempting, and... and something that she couldn’t even consider naming. And it still wasn't close enough. 

He pulled her down for another kiss, her hair dancing between them. Her breasts moved against his chest, her core radiating her desire, which had to already completely soak his breeches. He was holding her close, closer than ever, as her hands traveled down between them and busied themselves with unlacing his unnecessary clothing. The moment when she had to retreat so he could lose the breeches felt empty, deprived of something she deeply needed for her survival; returning to his lap felt pure, saving even. For a moment she moved experimentally, the wetness from her soaked folds coating his manhood; everything inside her twisted and squirmed, the fire burning brightly, her eyes rolling somewhere in her head. His breath hitched as he moved her slightly up by her buttocks and lowered her onto him. She moaned, stretched and filled in all the _right_ ways; he groaned, burying his face in the crook of her neck. She gave herself a moment before moving, first slowly, in a circular motion, going quicker with every round. Her head was spinning, her whole body arching, wanting _more_. More, more, always more.

A muffled cry escaped her as his lips found her nipple; she could only close her eyes and pull him _closer_ , always closer, and completely surrender. His hips met her movements, his mouth cherished one of her peaks, his fingers caressed her other breast. What did it feel like exactly? Was it seven hells, or rather seven heavens? She had no idea, nor did she care.

They chased their pleasures together, and even though she seemed to be the one in control she was completely at the mercy of her own body and its machinations. The fire grew and grew, yet didn’t want to break; could it grow any more without burning her entirely in the process? She was almost there, she could already feel it, but was unable to exactly reach it, frustration threatening to overwhelm her.

Another gasp came out from somewhere deep within her throat as he took control, holding her firmly by her hips and moving her up and down, his lips still busy with her breasts, his fingers somehow managing to brush that little bundle of nerves that burnt the most. She shuddered, clinging to him for dear life, the “more” reaching entirely new levels, and then finally came apart, clenching around him, falling limp onto him, getting the most of the pleasure. When she recovered from her heights, he flipped her onto her back in one quick move, angling her legs so they landed on his shoulders, and started pounding into her rather furiously, until she burnt once again, until they both came at the same moment, him with a quiet grunt, her with his name on her lips.

He eased out of her and, before she could even think about any possibility of getting up, pulled her by her legs to the edge of the bed, knelt on the floor, and started licking her clean. Oversensitive as she currently was, it didn’t take him long to lead her towards completion once more.

Thoroughly spent, she breathed heavily in satiation as Roose laid down next to her, leaning on his elbow. He was also rather drained, and watched her with a steady, satisfied smirk.

“I hope you found such assistance... tolerable,” he commented, his eyes moving over her body, coming to a stop on her just slightly outlined belly. Before answering, she reached for his hand, entwining her fingers with his. He looked her in the eyes and in the depths of his irises, she noticed something resembling a question. Smiling, she squeezed his fingers and led them to rest at her stomach, watching him the entire time. His eyes lingered on their conjoined hands, and when she removed her hand on her belly alone. He moved his thumb in a gentle, yet slightly absent-minded caress, making her yearn to know what exactly he was thinking.

She will never know, won’t she?

His eyes returned to her face, his lips reaching her mouth in something she understood as a silent “thank you”. She will probably never receive any spoken acknowledgment; that had to be enough.

Somehow, at that moment, it was.

She smiled, stretched herself, and finally sat up, feeling positively tired and ready to fall into blissful embraces of sleep. In her own bed, obviously.

“It was rather acceptable,” she answered. “I think we might reach perfection in time, with the right amount of practice.”

She could swear he wanted to laugh because his eyes sparkled like she had never seen before. And he smiled, not with that unexpected, slightly peculiar smile she had already seen, but the new, peacefully satisfied one. It was his own kind of smile, truly suiting him; it made his face light up, reaching his pale irises.

She liked it even more.

“Anytime, my lady.”

She was sure this was that one promise he was definitely going to keep.

And she wasn’t going to complain.


	17. Days in Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone in 2021! First of all, I'm really sorry for the delay. I wanted the chapter to be published on the first day of the year, so I could properly wish you all a happy new year, but it wasn't possible. Sigh. December was my worst month of 2020, and I feel like I'm still recovering from it, mentally and emotionally. It's not easy, but I'm trying. 
> 
> Then I ended up rewriting a large part of the chapter (who knew Inspiration could hit me at 4 am on Monday?), because my current!Sansa turns out to be much different from the first-draft!Sansa. And somehow it also evolved into the second smut scene ;D (sorry not sorry). 
> 
> I hope the New Year was kind to you as far, and that it continues being so. I wish you all the best there is! Gods know we do need a break... 
> 
> Enjoy and take care! <3

The period that followed was rather... good. Sansa felt energetic and more alive than she might have felt her whole life. Morning rays passing through the windows seemed brighter, warmer. The snow outside was more beautiful, reflecting the sun like an icy mirror. The castle walls looked inviting once again as she trod the corridors with a spring in her steps. The Northerners got used to her positive attitude and a radiant smile that quite often brightened her features, and they started crowding Winterfell. From time to time, although very hesitantly, some lower noblemen also appeared. The Northern capital once again was bustling with life, just as she was. Sansa had a thought they might be coming not for their problems alone, but rather for the sight she represented, as self-confident as it sounded. She wasn’t ashamed of that notion; on the contrary, it made her feel even more assured regarding her position. 

Per his promise, Roose took some of her duties from her, so she could focus on the visiting subjects, her own well-being, and the life inside her. And that life was growing rather spectacularly. 

One day, as they were walking to their studies after breakfast, she felt a peculiar sensation in her belly. It almost made her stumble, panic raising high and taking complete control over her mind. Roose supported her when she swayed, her fingers tightening on his forearm on their own accord.

What if something wrong was going on? What if... what if she would lose their babe?

Her hand strengthened its grip on his arm as she closed her eyes, exhaling slowly through her mouth, focusing on her belly alone - the rest of the world stopped existing.

A small gasp escaped her as she felt it again - a deep flutter inside her, not painful, just new. And... incredible. Her mind recalled a passage she had read in the book Wolkan had given her, and suddenly she knew what it was.

It was their baby moving.

On an instinct she loosened her grasp on Roose’s arm and led his hand to her belly, hoping the sensation would return, hoping he could feel it as well, although she had no idea why exactly.

The sensation did return, and she couldn’t stop a gleeful chuckle from escaping her. It was true - she was really carrying another being inside her. A living, breathing, moving babe. Her babe.

_Their_ babe.

It seemed to be the one ultimate occurrence she needed to make her fully aware it was the truth. It wasn’t her body playing tricks on her, it wasn’t Wolkan’s mistake - she was going to be a mother. Even though she had analyzed it a million times already, it took her breath away once again, but now the only emotion she was experiencing was joy. It was truly happening, and no one will take away from her this person to love, hers only.

She turned her head slightly, searching for Roose’s reaction. From a rather lost expression in his eyes, she concluded he had felt it as well but didn’t know what it was.

Men truly didn’t have a clue, did they?

“That’s our child moving,” she announced proudly, squeezing his hand that was still lying on her belly. “It’s there, happy and healthy, and can’t wait to meet us. Though I hope it will wait a little longer.”

She chuckled again, the world slowly coming back to her. They were standing in the middle of a corridor where everyone could see them, joined together like two halves of one whole. In the moment of doubt and fear, she had instinctively turned to Roose for protection, to be her shield against the world. Who would have imagined...

Sansa didn’t manage to finish that thought when Roose's gaze moved from their joined hands and she recognized the dark cloud in his eyes. Breath caught in her throat - she had never seen him like that anywhere but in bed during the nights. It seemed he allowed himself to lose his restraints in another circumstance for the first time ever. In the daylight, the very same lustful gaze looked more predatory and wild, making her slightly uneasy as she did not know what to expect. 

Before she could react Roose spun her around and pulled her behind him towards the nearest chamber. To her embarrassment, the nearest chamber turned out to be the Great Hall - they hadn't walked far from it. There were people bustling about, cleaning the room after their meal and preparing it for the counsels she would have with her subjects later that day.

“Out,” Roose almost barked, and the servants didn’t need to be repeated twice, scurrying away in a hurry. Sansa’s cheeks burnt fiercely as she mulled over the concept of reaching her pleasure in such an important place, such an open place. Maybe it was too improper, maybe there were some boundaries after all...

But once again, Roose didn’t give her time to protest: the guards shut the heavy doors behind them and at the same moment her back made sudden contact with their surface, her lips devoured, her skirts going up around her waist. Although, she highly doubted she would protest, even if she could.

It seemed to be an unrealistic dream, the situation entirely not like them, entirely not like _him_ \- without restraints, completely wild, untamed. It didn’t suit that cold, aloof man she had married moons ago at all. Had she changed him so much?

On the other hand, did it suit that terrified young girl that had met him underneath the Weirwood tree? Had _he_ changed _her_ that much as well?

Roose didn’t bother undressing much, only freed his manhood while Sansa dealt with her small clothes. He then lifted her by her buttocks and entered her without any further preparation, her legs immediately wrapping around his hips. Holding her by her rear he moved her up and down, generating all the right friction, while also thrusting inside her from below. His lips were mostly on the level of her neck, and he kissed her there sloppily, his teeth nibbling at her earlobe from time to time. The only thing she could do was to wrap herself tighter around him, her hands clasping on his nape, her thighs squeezing his hips, and surrender. That was their first time standing up, the first one quick, chaotic, and slightly inconsiderate, truly originating from _his_ wild lust. She had never seen him in such abandonment as in that moment, and it both greatly aroused and slightly terrified her.

Such wildness couldn’t last long, especially given the position they were in. The moment she felt him losing his rhythm, she forced his mouth to meet hers. Before they would part for the lack of air she bit hard on his lower lip and continued to do so until she drew blood, her nails digging into his neck. As she suspected, it pushed him over the edge; grunting into her mouth he came inside her, and she felt his seed trailing down her thighs as he withdrew afterward. For a moment they just panted, their foreheads locked together, sweat trickling down their faces, a single stream of blood decorating his chin.

Sansa expected Roose to get her to her feet, hoping he would help her reach her conclusion as well, but he still held her closely, his hands on her bottom. After momentary rest he resumed moving her up and down, rubbing her sensitive parts over his body. That was the friction she needed, and she clung even tighter to him as he kissed her hungrily. The metallic taste of blood on her tongue sent a jolt down her spine. She craved for some more touch, but he couldn’t free his hands - she didn’t have much faith in her muscles right now, they would possibly betray her pretty quickly, withholding their support. His mouth was also on the wrong level to give attention to her breasts, so she could only focus on the friction and lean onto it for release.

Somehow, however, he managed to drape one arm below her to steady her against the door, and his newly freed hand quickly helped her reach her pleasure. Quietly rasping his name into his mouth, she came apart in his embrace.

Only after her pleasure left her, he gently set her on the floor, supporting her as she was finding her ground. Her cheeks burnt, shame gnawing at her conscience. She had just had an almost animalistic experience against the door of the Great Hall and she loved every second of it.

“The Northerners will await you,” Roose said after clearing his throat.

“Well, they'll have to wait a little bit longer and it’s all because of you,” Sansa huffed, trying to organize her hair and stop her legs from shaking.

“Shall I tell them that?” he smirked at her shamelessly.

“What? No!” she exclaimed with feigned indignation and a genuine smile, striking him playfully on the shoulder. After she realized what she had just done, her own action scared her - she was way too familial with him. That was too much, what was she even thinking?

“They would definitely enjoy seeing you like that,” he murmured, drinking her sight in. She felt even more flushed than before and averted her eyes.

“They can dream about it.” _This sight is only for you,_ her mind added, but she stopped her mouth from uttering those words at the last moment. Straightening up, she finally felt somewhat steady on her still tingling legs. “Excuse me.”

She quickly went past him and left the Great Hall, heading back to her chamber, trying not to think too much. Her soldiers followed her silently, and she desperately avoided their gazes. Poor men that had heard and probably imagined so much... Even sheer thought about it made her cheeks redder.

Once in her chamber, she slid down the door, trying not to associate its surface with the one from the Great Hall, forever tainted in her mind. Before doing anything else, she somehow had to get rid of the turmoil currently raging in her mind.

That had been... _something_. Most resembling that one time in the peasant’s bed, but much more primal. She would have never thought such a fire could arise from barely sensing their babe moving. But that had been extraordinary, hadn’t it? With a gentle smile on her face, Sansa laid her hand on her belly. They had created something together, and that something was alive and well, growing steadily inside her. It was beautiful.

However, what had just happened... She felt like before she would face the Northerners she would have to cleanse not only her body but her soul alike. Normal people didn’t behave like that. Normal people didn’t chase their pleasures against the door of their main chamber, completely devoured by their animalistic needs. Take father and mother, for example. Had anyone ever noticed them in such a situation? No one, and she could hardly imagine it. Even before her birth, it had surely been highly unlikely, given the facts her father had been at war and that the love between them had grown through years only after he had returned, so...

Sansa stiffened immediately, realizing the forbidden word that suddenly appeared in her thoughts. Had she just implied such things could only happen if there was... love?

Breath caught in her throat. No, no, no, that word had no place in her mind, just as there was no place in her heart for the emotion standing behind those four letters - except for the one reserved for the little being inside her. There was only another four-letter word, and it couldn’t change. It just couldn’t, and it never will.

There was not and will never be any love, only hate with the added physical attraction that stemmed from her body alone, not her mind. Anything positive surely continued to be a fabrication of the pregnancy. The babe made her feel things she would have never felt in any other circumstances. But this wasn’t really about “feeling”, was it? Rather about "considering" it. Mulling it over in her head, nothing more.

Oh, she definitely needed to cleanse her soul. What her husband had done had been unforgivable still, and however wonderful he would ever be to her - and he was far from being wonderful - or how many flaws she would see in Robb’s rule over the North, it couldn’t be erased. She hated him and she will continue to do so. The plan still stood - she will give birth to their heir, kill Roose, and finally become free, for the first time in her life. Simple as that.

Because she hated him. Right?

This part of Sansa’s pregnancy was generally a period of higher appetites. For food, for companionship, for Roose.

Food was never a problem - although she felt terrible eating so much while the North was teetering on the brink of starvation, she knew she had to eat. The guilt prompted her to increase the intensity of the trade with Essos, as they had some money to spare - or rather they still managed to balance on a thin line between acquiring essential supplies and going bankrupt. They needed to stock the North properly for the upcoming Long Night, and Sansa would be damned if her condition turned out to be the cause of people dying from hunger. She asked Wolkan to keep a careful eye on their finances, in case she would miss a moment when the vaults ran dry and all hope would be lost.

All the companionship she needed was granted by the Northmen and Wolkan, and though there were times she desperately wished for some female company, she couldn’t exactly say she was lonely. On the contrary, sometimes she even needed to shelter herself in her chamber, taking a well-deserved rest, far from the world. Following the growth of the trade, the number of people coming to ask for her council increased, and soon there were too many subjects to manage to speak to them all in a considerate amount of time. Her attempts to get Roose to listen to some of them fell flat on her face, and in the end, this became her only task, the rest transferred to Wolkan and, ultimately, her husband.

The third appetite was both the easiest to satiate and the most unsatiable one. After that memorable night when she had visited Roose’s chamber for the first time, she thought they would return to their previous routine. She even hoped so, to be more exact. They didn’t, though, which forced her to seek Roose out herself whenever she was in need, and there was a long period when she demanded his assistance every single night. Her body sometimes seemed possessed by some unnatural powers that tempted her to follow their urges and act upon them. She always complied; those were the nights of the deepest pleasures. She was shuddering, coming apart in his arms only to get it together moments later and repeat it all. Her heart learned to beat in accordance with his own, their breathing the same pattern of disjointed panting. His lips and fingers covered every little fragment of her body, their beings joined into one. From time to time, Sansa wondered if she wasn't using him for her dark desires; but then, she didn’t hear him complaining, did she? Sneaking out in the middle of the night to return to her chamber - they never slept together - she felt like a mistress escaping her lover’s lair. She wasn’t a mistress, though. She was a wife, and a deeply satisfied one at that.

From the day they had felt the baby moving, Sansa had become more cautious and guarded with her thoughts. It was one thing to let her body take control and act on its primal urges, and something entirely different to allow herself to even consider an idea of forgiveness and having feelings. She couldn’t make that mistake again. The thing they had was purely physical, balancing on some basic form of respect for one another. That was all. That was all it could ever be, because she had a vengeance to focus on, and he didn’t even have a heart.

Besides, she had much more important things to consider right now.

Her dresses were getting significantly wider to hide her growing belly, but the time her condition would become obvious was drawing nearer with every passing day. It was unavoidable; every time her handmaiden put a looser gown on her, Sansa shuddered at the thought that soon everyone will know. She dreaded that moment. There were already more people allowed to the mystery than it was desirable. Her handmaiden, their guards, anyone who by chance witnessed them feeling the babe move. Maybe they had been unintentionally careless, or somehow trusted more people with their baby’s safety than it was necessary...

Trust. It was an interesting concept, so compound in its meaning and diversity. If someone had told her few moons ago she would ever trust Roose with anything, she would have laughed in their faces. However scary it might be, right now she trusted him with her life. Right now, his sheer presence made her feel safer.

One night she lingered on his bed slightly longer than usual, her fingers caressing her already clearly enlarged belly. She stared at it firmly, like she could make it secure with her eyes and determination alone.

“I fear what will happen when people know,” she admitted, nervously biting on her lower lip. Wolkan had told her she shouldn’t stress herself too much, for the sake of the babe; it was a hard recommendation to follow while being constantly worried about the aforementioned child’s safety.

“We’ll double the guards,” Roose answered, his eyes on her belly as well. He was lying next to her on his back, naked, still trying to steady his breathing after an intense collision of their bodies barely moments ago.

“I don’t want to have eight soldiers at my door,” she snorted and turned onto her side to look at him.

“We’ll double the guards at Winterfell,” he specified, gazing right back at her.

“Will you tell them not to let Ramsay in?” She immediately challenged him, her voice firm, demanding an answer.

A darker cloud appeared in his irises, the one he sheltered himself with whenever his bastard was being discussed. They had talked about it a few times already, but the situation never changed. She still had no idea what his true approach to Ramsay was, and it was eating her alive. Some stubborn hope within her told her that the right amount of perseverance will finally bring her the answers she so badly needed, but it hadn't worked as far. 

“And how will you explain letting in dozens of Northerners daily, while withholding access for your own family?"

“Family?" She could not believe her own ears, her attitude immediately transforming from nagging but quiet anxiety into a turbulent storm of anger. "Do I have to remind you what that _family_ wanted to do, something you helped stage yourself? Because trust me, I definitely did not forget.” The memory made her shiver in uncontrolled rage. How could he be so stoic about it? Did she matter so little, even with their child inside her, that he chose to have a selective memory towards his bastard? She definitely will not be having any of that, and if he believed, even for a second, that she would just listen to it and accept everything happening around her without questions, he was deeply mistaken. 

“I did not forget it either. But, in the eyes of the North, he is my son, thus your family, however much you'd like to deny it.” The tone of his voice didn’t sound like he cared much about her little outburst. “The lords would be delighted to notice Lord of Winterfell fearing his own bastard. They’d come barging at the door the very same moment and trust me, their intentions would not be noble, for our child alike.” His eyes ventured from her irises to her belly and back again, and he must have noticed she was not placated. "Besides, we might have a use for him one day." 

It only enraged her some more. 

"What use? If our child dies, or if I die with it, then you'll still have an heir? That's your use for him?" She was furious and decided she had enough of that bullshit. This was the time for answers, and she was going to get them either way. The possible consequences did not matter in the slightest. 

Roose didn't answer for a moment, and Sansa could feel her anger and disappointment only growing in intensity. Before she could continue talking, though, she found herself pinned to the bed, Roose looming over her, holding her in place by her wrists. 

She tried to get away from him, but his grip was too tight, and so she could only stubbornly return his gaze, waiting for his move. There was no grain of fear in her, only pure fury. 

“What do you want me to say? That it's not true and I'll have him killed right away?" _Yes_ almost left her lips, but she tightened them in a thin line and refused to cooperate. "I won't say it, because you’re right." Despite herself, she felt a burning iron being pushed through her heart, and she had to struggle some more against his grip to focus on something else rather than the pain she experienced inside her. "And we both know you would do the same, were you in my place." 

“I would not…”

“You have a practical mind, you see an opportunity and you take it. You wouldn't do anything reckless that could erase all you've built so far. You would leave every door open, in case you'd need it one day." She stared at him wide-eyedly, slightly uneasy at the hidden truths behind his words, and how much exactly he was right. "It doesn't change anything." His grip loosened, but she struggled no more, defeated by the logic she could not deny. "I don't want Ramsay as my heir." He straightened up, his hands coming to her stomach, caressing it. The babe seemed to come alive at the touch, reminding them both it was there as well, an important part of that discussion. "I want our son to be my heir, _our_ heir. I want him to be the future head of our joined houses. And I want you to survive the birth and remain by my side, even more than when I took you as my wife.” He stared at her for a moment, his words hanging heavy in the air, ringing in her ears and undoubtedly reaching her heart, swiftly healing the gaping hole formed barely minutes prior. “I want you, Sansa, and what we created together.” 

There was something special and raw in that moment she could not resist it any longer - sitting up she closed his mouth with a possessive kiss, turning them firmly so he ended up on his back and she straddling him, the position entirely reversed from the one seconds ago. Something awoke in her, something she denied to name, but that something made her forget everything but the man in front of her. The usual rush of power she experienced whenever she was in control did not come, because right now it was not relevant. She only wanted to feel him, and with him to feel as alive as she had while hearing that one of a kind confession.

She leaned towards him and kissed him again, deeply, longingly, as his hands traveled down her bare back, drawing invisible lines on her skin. Then, she straightened and gazed down at him, knowing full well how to proceed. Her hand followed the path down his chest and abdomen until it reached its goal; her fingers wrapped around his length and started moving. She did not have any experience with this, as it had always been her on the receiving end of such ministrations, but she did her best to get him hard again while never looking away from his eyes. From the slightest changes in his expression and breathing pattern she learned what she was doing right, and repeated it until she felt he was more than ready. 

She moved forward and slowly sank on him as he held her by her hips, securing her in place. For a moment they just stared into each other, their gazes locked in some silent confirmation of the words that had just been said, of wanting one another and nothing else in the entire world. It wasn't true in general - her wishes were much different and broader than that - but at that moment it was everything, and at that moment nothing could break it. There was nothing else but the two of them, and nothing else mattered. 

She leaned against his chest for leverage as she started moving, never looking away from him. His hands made a slow and sensual journey covering the majority of her body, and then moved to hers, forcing her to either lose her balance or lean on the bedframe behind him. This way, her breasts landed directly above his face. He used that position as much as he could, of course, which made it difficult for her to proceed, the pleasure almost overwhelming. But she wanted to last longer, she wanted them to reach their release together, and so she focused entirely on her movements, quickening them and making it difficult for him to continue with what he was doing. 

The moment she believed him being close she allowed herself to surrender and slowed down again, letting his tongue do its magic. It pushed her over the edge and she came with a muffled cry, riding him until he finished as well. Then, she thoughtlessly collapsed onto him, hiding her face in the crook of his neck, trying to steady her breathing. It felt good, so good to be satisfied and safe in his arms.

“No one will touch you as long as I'm alive.” His hands caressed her back as his breath tickled her ear. “It is only up to you now to survive.”

She looked up at him and nodded, trusting his words. Yes, she was definitely going to defy all the odds and survive the ordeal of birth, however difficult it might prove to be. She just had to. 

They gazed at each other for a long moment until she leaned forward to softly kiss him on the lips. After that, she quickly got dressed and left, denying her body the last final urge it possessed, the urge to ask him if she could stay.

However badly she wanted to deny it, she felt the safest in his arms.

Her legs were still shaking and her heart was beating so wildly in her chest she thought it was going to explode, as she was returning to her chamber. Only now did she realize how badly out of the game and true to her feelings she had been. The game had got lost entirely, other things clouding her judgment. And what about Roose? Had he been honest or just playing with her emotions however he wanted? 

Awful thing was, she had no idea. 

And what was even more awful… she did not care.

The following meetings with the Northerners found Sansa conflicted. Her fears slightly diminished, but it didn't change the fact that during the days her anxiety flourished. Focusing on her subjects was difficult despite her wishing to concentrate on their problems, because she was constantly wondering when people would see through her, and if she would notice it. They talked to her while she resided at the high table: therefore it wasn’t especially easy to get a good look at her full posture, which postponed the inevitable.

It was unavoidable, however, and soon the secret stood no longer as one of the Northmen, after being listened to, left a small bundle at the table.

“From my wife, m’lady. Some herbs, for the better growth of your babe,” he said, and Sansa stiffened for a moment. Silent whispers rushed through the hall, every set of eyes fastened on her.

“Thank you, good sir,” she answered with a smile, trying to compose herself.

The only present nobleman took a step forward, apparently being the most entitled to ask.

“My lady... are you expecting?” he inquired, and silence fell upon the Great Hall. Sansa swallowed, feeling her heart racing. Her hands went down, protectively covering her belly.

_I won’t let anyone hurt you,_ she thought, sending positive energy to the little being inside her. _Your father and me, we'll protect you. I promise._

“Yes. Yes, I am,” she answered proudly, with a bright smile.

It was out. 


	18. Heavy in Your Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things were running too smoothly for some time, don't you think? It's time to stir them up a little bit! :evil grin: 
> 
> The title comes from the song by Florence and the Machine, which might be one of my favorite songs of all time. I fell in love with it watching a fan video of one of my favorite ships of all time (Wesley and Lilah from "Angel"), and realized it fits the majority of my couples! They can never be easy and happy ones (angst for the win)!
> 
> Hope you enjoy! Take care! <3

Sansa quickly lost count of how many people brought her herbs or other specifics to “help ease that period”, or small gifts for her future babe. She thanked them all with a smile and immediately sent everything to Wolkan, so he could inspect it and make sure no one was actively trying to harm her. Not only would it help her survive, but was also an important knowledge to possess. If there were enemies so close to her right now, they could be eradicated before anything bad happened. There will be no mercy for those trying to hurt her babe. Roose would probably flay them alive, and Sansa believed she would not oppose such punishment for a crime against her child. The extreme cruelty of that act still made her shudder, but she knew that if it came to protecting the little one, she would be just as fierce as a true she-wolf fighting for her cubs’ safety, stopping at nothing to ensure it.

The lords were much more hesitant than the smallfolk to acknowledge the news. The Karstarks were quick to send their letters of congratulations, other important families remained silent. Except for House Umber; the missive from the Last Hearth destined only for Sansa's eyes - she was quite certain Roose had read it before her - was as insulting to House Bolton as the previous one, assuring her the Umbers would stand by her side at any given moment. If need be, they would come to her rescue.

That sounded like an open declaration of war and Sansa felt both glad and offended by it. It was good to be reminded there still were people for whom loyalty was a priority, and it burnt strong in their veins. But she was no longer a damsel in distress, only helplessly waiting to be rescued. She was a Wardeness in her own right, and when the time would come, she would save herself. Her views had changed since she had received the first letter from Lord Umber, and now she was certain such open declarations were foolish and unnecessary. 

Wondering about Greatjon’s bravery bordering on stupidity - or stupidity bordering on bravery - she calmly wrote him back, assuring him she was well and in no need of any rescue, and thanking him for being concerned for her safety. At the same time, she also pondered whether it didn’t push Roose’s limits to their ultimate breaking point. There had to be a line of misconduct towards House Bolton he would not allow anyone to cross. The notion made her uneasy, but not as much as it should have. Maybe it made her a terrible ruler, but currently, the good of the North and its inhabitants lost its priority, the fear for the little creature inside her taking the very first place in her every thought.

There was also another raven, and that one made her blood boil with anger at the sheer sight of the sigil. Wolkan left the letter at the table during breakfast, and both Sansa and Roose just stared at the mockingbird, laughing at them from the unbroken seal. She had to admit she had been too caught up in the matters of her pregnancy, her marriage, and worrying about Ramsay that she forgot about _him_. She had forgotten about the one who had brought her back home, the one who, however surprising it seemed to be, she now detested more than her husband. He hadn't visited her thoughts for months, and she wished it would remain that way; his meddling could only mean trouble.

But there was no escaping it now - one of them had to read the letter. Finally, with her heart beating so loudly she thought Roose could hear it from the other side of the table, Sansa reached for the missive and broke the seal to quickly skip through Littlefinger’s neat handwriting.

_My Dearest Sansa,_

_It reached my ears that you are expecting an heir to your Northern household. Let me express my sincere wishes on your future offspring’s behalf. I rejoice with you. The Knights of the Vale are always willing to come to your aid, especially now, when you shall become a mother. You are in grave danger, maybe graver than ever before. Beware of lions in people’s dark hearts, they can unleash on you in the most unexpected time. Remember - we are all liars here. Call, and I shall come._

_Your faithful servant,_

_Petyr Baelish_

Sansa snorted, tossing the parchment away. It was obvious the letter was meant for them both - her, to distrust Roose in everything he would do, suspecting him of collaborating with the Lannisters, and Roose, to question her loyalty to him. Even the way Baelish had addressed it - there was no "lady" there, which suggested a close, maybe even intimate nature of their relations. Did he want to sow a grain of marital mistrust? Or maybe destroy whatever they could have developed as far because it didn't suit his interests? He had probably expected to find her broken and miserable upon his return, so he could once again be her savior; what he surely heard about her now, though, had to be far from his predictions, definitely not to his liking. 

Roose gazed at her silently before picking the letter up and scanning its contents.

“He still thinks he owns me,” she murmured, angrily digging into her meal.

“Has he ever? Truly owned you?” What was he asking exactly? “I believed it was your conscious choice to come here and become my wife.”

“It was.” As much as it could have been, but she wasn’t going to elaborate on it. “But Petyr had... or rather still has, a lot of plans for me. And himself, of course.”

“ _Petyr_?” Roose’s brow went higher. She smirked at him mischievously.

“Careful, Lord Bolton, someone might think you are jealous,” she mocked him playfully. Nowadays, it almost felt like they were a perfectly normal, functional marriage, and sometimes she was catching herself on behaving like a normal, functional wife, almost aching to truly be one.

“My wife addresses another man by his given name, what am I supposed to think?” That was a good question - what was he supposed to think, and how would she know it? He watched her carefully, and for a billionth time, Sansa yearned to know what was going on in his head, or at least for his voice to betray some of his feelings. If he had any, but the longer they went on, the more she believed he actually had. And it continued to surprise her in the most positive ways.

“That she trusts you enough to use it.” She smiled at him genuinely this time. “Baelish wanted me to trust him, and he insisted I called him _Petyr_ ,” she added explanatorily, traces of disgust hearable in her voice.

“And do you?” She gazed up at him, asking silently what he meant. “Trust him?”

“No.” Shaking her head, she felt forced to reflect on her acquaintanceship with Petyr Baelish, which was definitely one of the most complicated relationships in her entire life, coming close only to the connection between her and the man sitting in front of her at that very moment. 

“Why?” Her mind reluctantly returned to Roose; it was slightly difficult to balance her thoughts between him and Petyr while still trying to remain in the present. “Didn’t he save you in the capital and bring you back home?”

“He did.” Where was he going with all those questions? Was he testing her again? She thought they were past such games. Or maybe he just wanted to hear how many of Littlifinger’s deeds she was aware of? Did he know something she did not? “But he also assassinated the man who saved me, married my aunt only to become the Lord of the Vale, and later pushed her to her death through the Moon Door, telling her in his whole life he had loved only one person, and that person was my mother. Then, he fooled me into thinking we were going North to arrange his new marriage, not mine. And let's not forget he betrayed his king and killed him while remaining such a valuable Lannister ally. It doesn’t sound like a man worth trusting, does it?”

As she took a sip of her water, she noticed a sudden spark of interest in Roose’s eyes, and then realized what she had just done, cold dread going down her spine.

_Let's not forget he betrayed his king and killed him._

Oh gods.

She had just casually spilled one of the biggest secrets in the entire realm. This was not public knowledge for sure, and she had never been the one to casually spill secrets without thinking twice, at least not since her father’s execution. But for quite some time she had felt so good around Roose, so comfortable, like never before in her entire life. It had become a norm to talk to him on such a close, personal level, or just casually converse about the world and its matters; it made her drastically lower her guards. Today, she got additionally distracted by the idea of Petyr coming back into her life, and she lost herself in it all...

“Petyr Baelish poisoned king Joffrey?” Roose's voice was neutral, but Sansa sensed he was greedy for information. She swallowed the water loudly and put down her cup, thinking hard on how him having that knowledge changed her current situation, terror appearing in her mind.

“Yes.” There was no turning back right now - she had to pretend she had intended to say it, simply because she trusted him so much. She just had to contain the growing panic, somehow calm down, try not to think about the fact she had made a grave mistake that could cost them both a life, and remember to breathe.

_Breathe._

“Alone?”

“No, but he never told me who helped him.”

It was neither a lie nor the truth - she hadn't realized at the beginning that Petyr had almost explicitly revealed the identity of his allies. She had had her suspicions, but only after she had grown wiser she had revisited that discussion and realized what he had meant. _Nothing like a thoughtful gift to make a new friendship grow strong._ “Growing strong” - those were House Tyrell’s words, and frankly, who had more reasons than them to want Joffrey dead? Well, a lot of people in fact, but they were high on that list.

Roose gazed at her wordlessly for a while, processing the information. In a way, she might have just sentenced Petyr to death. She couldn’t care less about it: he deserved it. But what if he brought her down with him? He very well could, claiming she had known about the poison in her necklace from the very start. Which probably wouldn’t even matter much - Cersei wanted her dead either way, convinced about her guilt even without proof, consumed by her hatred.

Her mind fixated on the damage her latest mistake could inflict upon Petyr to avoid thinking about the effect it would have on _her,_ her life, her babe, and her marriage. If she started mulling over it, it might prove to be too much. She couldn’t, she just couldn’t... breathe...

“This is a rather dangerous knowledge,” Roose finally noticed, his voice its usual tone.

“I know.” She decided to take a different approach; anything for him not to notice the storm raging within her. “And Baelish is a dangerous man, not to be underestimated.” Maybe if she presented it in a certain way, it would steer Roose away from thinking how he could use the news...

“Clearly.” He didn’t seem entirely convinced, but at the same moment, Sansa felt like he was withholding some information as well. “Do you fear him?”

Did she? Currently, the only thing she was afraid of was what her husband could do, given the opportunity.

“No. I don’t think he would harm me,” she answered half-truthfully. She wasn’t afraid of Littlefinger because she knew he would never personally hurt her; however, he had already done things that might have potentially brought her a lot of suffering.

“Not you, perhaps, but what about _an heir to your Northern household?”_

Sansa felt her breath being sucked out of her chest as she stared at Roose speechlessly. It was a good point. She had talked with Petyr about wrapping her Bolton husband around her finger, but they had never addressed what would be Petyr’s approach to her getting pregnant. Had he been certain she would do everything in her power to prevent it from happening, or… or he just hadn't cared, knowing he would deal with any child she might bear his own way? 

“He’d most probably want your heir to be his own,” Roose continued as she struggled to contain her emotions. She knew the Mockingbird better than Roose, but he spoke the truth, most probably. If Littlefinger was going to continue his plan of ascending the Iron Throne with her by his side, any child that wasn't his would only stand in the way. Children died all the time, it wouldn’t be difficult to stage an unfortunate accident...

She felt dizzy; it was all too much. The air in the chamber became stifling, suffocating her. She needed to get away, she needed to breathe, she needed...

In a haze, she abruptly got to her feet; the world swirled and turned dark, oblivion embracing her mind.

When Sansa came to her senses, she was lying in her bed, cold winter air flowing through the open window. Her mind quickly grasped the situation and the dread that appeared caused her breathing to cease.

Never before had she felt a more severe panic than at this moment, terrified she had just lost her baby, every other concern paling in comparison. 

Her hand shot down, expecting to find her belly flat or bloodied, or...

“The babe’s fine.”

A muffled gasp escaped her as she held back tears of joy. She hadn’t even realized how much she wanted it till this very moment when the overwhelming terror transformed into an even more all-consuming relief.

“What happened?” she whispered and looked at Roose, who was sitting at a chair next to the bed, watching her closely.

“You fainted. Wolkan examined you thoroughly and only said you should take a long rest from your duties, and spare your mind some worries as well.”

“Maybe he should advise my husband to stop presenting me with new threats, then,” she murmured, but truly wasn’t in a mood for scolding anyone. She just wished to be held, to transfer at least a portion of those overwhelming emotions to another human being.

“I apologize if I made you worry.“

She thought she misheard him, her eyes shooting wide open. There was no hint of remorse in his posture, but the way he was looking at her told her he had really said it.

She nodded her head quite frantically, her eyes glistening, their conversation slowly replaying in her mind. At that moment, she didn’t want to think about Cersei, Littlefinger, or other threats to her life. She just needed to feel safe, at least for a flicker of a second. No one else could provide her with that sensation but Roose.

“Could you...” she mumbled, her throat dry, and patted the bed next to her. He gazed up at her, but didn’t comment on it and just sat down where she showed him. Without further hesitation, she moved forward and hugged him, her body clinging tightly to him, her face burying in his fur. Her heart beat loudly in her throat as she almost prayed for him to return it, to hold her in his secure embrace, at least for a few seconds, at least for this elusive sense of safety.

She felt him tensing at the initial contact, but then his hands wandered onto her back and he relaxed, closing her in his arms. Whatever he could be experiencing, she didn't really care; she just needed to unburden herself at least a little bit, conveying some of what was eating her alive to him through physical contact, or else she would explode.

As his hand started caressing her back, the tame broke, and she found herself sobbing into his chest, the terror she had felt upon thinking she had lost their baby fleeing her through tears. He held her closely, soothing her with the gentle touch, letting her cry.

And the tears kept coming. She just wanted to feel safe, and for the fleeting moment she let herself believe the world consisted of this chamber, of the three of them alone. They were all alive, they were all here. Maybe, in another life, they could even be a true, happy family.

But it wasn’t this life. 

When the tears of terror eventually stopped coming, she went limp in his arms, her face pressed tightly against his chest. She wanted to believe _this_ could be real, she wanted to believe she meant any more to him than her name and the babe inside her. It surprised her how badly she wished for it all to be true.

But there was a question constantly replaying in her head, loud and clear: would he betray her and hand her over to the Lannisters as soon as she gave him what he wanted? She herself had armed him with the most dangerous weapon there was - information. Knowledge was power, as Petyr liked to say; and with that knowledge, Roose actually had a good starting point to reason with Cersei. Revealing who was the true culprit behind her beloved son’s death and bringing to her someone she had wanted to see dead for such a long time... It sounded like the beginning of a profitable bargain.

Sansa had no idea what exactly Cersei could offer him in return, but she wasn’t informed about the greater game. Stannis, Daenerys, the White Walkers... Their world was hanging on a thin thread, threatening to collapse on them at any given moment. Maybe he needed help, or something else only the Queen Mother could provide. Or maybe he wanted it all, just like Littlefinger.

There was a wish inside her, that their artificial marriage, that peculiar thing between them - even on a strictly physical level - meant at least a grain for him, that her life was more important than whatever Cersei could come up with. But she knew the harsh truth was entirely different. He was a man of cold, calculated business; the moment a new alliance with Cersei would prove to be beneficial to House Bolton, he wouldn't hesitate to hand her over. The grand words said some nights ago paled in confrontation with the prospect of what the Queen could give him, was he to deliver her not one, but two potential murderers of her most beloved king. 

Of course, the North would hate him even more if he betrayed their last remaining Stark, but, as Sansa had already realized, it was not loyalty that truly mattered for the majority of the Northerners, but survival. If, for example, Cersei provided them with forces necessary to defeat the White Walkers, and thanks to that the North would go on existing, it would be the only important thing. People would be glad to be alive, forgetting how they got there. _The North remembers,_ they used to say; currently, though, those were only empty words. 

And so, the answer to that question, however painful, was only one: he would.

The little being inside her might be the only thing keeping her alive. Once the baby was out... there will be nothing standing between her and perdition. She will have to fight for her own survival as soon as their child was born. Whatever doubts and reservations she might have been harboring up till now vanished, leaving her undeniably convinced about the steps she will have to take, though her heart broke at the realization.

Her plan had always concluded the same way in her head, but deep down she couldn't have imagined that end for quite some time. Having him killed? Or worse, killing him herself? Despite all reason, her heart didn't want it, and she knew that now. She wanted him alive and by her side.

But the situation had changed. For the last few months, he had been the only stable point in her life, and now became yet another threat. She could not allow herself to keep him alive. Feelings were weaknesses, and as such had to be eliminated. She couldn't afford such a luxury. 

The tears streamed once again as she clung to the man for whom she had all the possible emotions, from hatred and disgust to commitment, attraction and affection, while her heart steeled itself for the notion that after the birth she will end his life, once and for all.

She must have drifted off because the next time she opened her eyes it was already dark outside. The window was still open, but she didn’t feel cold, covered tightly with furs, the fire in the hearth going strong.

It was Wolkan this time sitting by her bedside, waiting for her to awake.

“I am sorry to bother you, my lady,” the maester quickly started, seeing she wasn’t sleeping anymore, and stood up, bowing his head. “I just wanted to inform you the Northerners who came today to be listened to were greatly concerned with your absence. They demanded to see you, but I managed to convince them everything is well with you and that they could see you tomorrow, or talk to lord Bolton instead. They refused and decided to remain in the Great Hall until you come to them.”

Sansa’s eyes widened as she gazed up at him.

“They... refused to talk to Roose?” she repeated in disbelief, not even realizing Roose’s name was already so deeply engraved in her head she was casually using it in conversations with other people. “Was anyone flayed? Or otherwise harmed?”

“No, my lady. Everyone’s safe in the Great Hall.”

 _For now_ , she thought, analyzing the situation. That was a direct insult, and House Bolton wasn’t the one to take insults lightly. Maybe she should act fast when they were still intact...

But if she went there, wouldn’t it mean she didn’t trust Roose? She had asked him once not to punish the lords with either flaying or Ramsay, and he had given her no reason to revoke that so-called trust now.

“You should rest, my lady,” Wolkan added like he was reading her mind and seeing her inner struggles. “Pregnancy is a tremendous effort for both body and mind, and as I’ve been constantly telling you, you shouldn’t stress yourself so much.”

“Thank you, maester.” She smiled at him, instinctively caressing her belly. “You may tell them I’m sorry I couldn’t see them today, but I’ll talk to them first thing tomorrow.”

“Of course, my lady.” Wolkan bowed and left, while Sansa stared absent-mindedly at the flames, her hand laid protectively over her stomach.

This game they had been playing... she was no longer convinced she knew the rules, but it had been slowly coming to an end either way. Perhaps they both got too caught up in it. Sansa, in her attempts to make people love her and ready to give up everything they had for her - they might actually do that, and their lives will be on her conscience. Having learned so much she knew those weren’t the sacrifices they should be making; as a ruler, she should sacrifice for them, not the other way around. Roose, in allowing her to warm up his image, up to the point it seemed terror had to be reintroduced for people to remember one could not simply refuse House Bolton. What were the next steps, for both of them? For the North? 

What was he going to do? Did she misjudge him today? Maybe she truly got him under her spell in some way, and her worries were entirely wrong. Maybe she would have won the game if it hadn’t been for her recklessness in sharing important information.

She will never know now, what _could have been_ if Petyr hadn’t sent that letter. It was too late to change it. Now, she only had to wait until the baby was born. Three moons, and she will be free. And the North will be entirely hers.

However broken and miserable she would be by then. 

  
  



	19. The Last Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, an update! It was supposed to arrive like three weeks ago, but there were a lot of things going on in "real-life" and I additionally took on another project that I really care about at the moment. I also got slightly discouraged by the fact I had to rewrite the first half of this chapter, and all in all I just hope the pieces fit together. I'm sorry for it being poorly edited - I just wanted to finally publish it, so I didn't pay as much attention to mistakes as I usually do. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy it! Have a great week Everyone! <3

Sansa woke up tired, exhausted even. The only thing she truly wished to do was to stay in bed, not having to think about all the dangers around her, just enjoying the Winter air flowing into her chamber for the whole day. She remembered her last resolutions all too clearly, and they seemed to burn a hole in her heart, the hole that was there to stay. Nothing could make it better, nothing could change what had happened or had been said the other day. Yes, it was not done yet, therefore could theoretically still be prevented; the emptiness inside her was of a different opinion, however. 

Even though it was not done, it was already set in stone. 

Sighing, she forced herself to leave the bed and call for her handmaiden to bring her some breakfast. The Northmen were probably still residing in the Great Hall - given they were even alive - and she had promised to hear them out first thing in the morning, so any venturing outside her chamber now would mean starting the day hungry. The babe did not want to be hungry. 

Even her meal seemed to lose its taste as she chewed it slowly, wondering. Whatever resolutions she had made, she couldn't let it show. She had to behave the very same way as she had done it till now, so Roose would not get any suspicions. He had probably gathered her tears had come from fear of losing their baby, and from the realization of having only enemies all around them; he couldn't have known the ultimate reason. He couldn't have known _he_ was the reason, and she had to make sure it would remain this way. 

It wasn't going to be easy, of course, but what in life was? She just had to enjoy his company like she had done it as far, nothing more and nothing less. It was surely doable.

With that in mind, Sansa left her chamber, wishing for some pause to the worries that troubled her mind, only to have her hopes crushed almost immediately. She almost laughed out loud at the sight in front of her; was her fate back to being the cruelest of them all, or was it just having fun at her expanse? Because there, barely a few steps from her, stood no one else but Ramsay. 

Couldn’t she get at least a single day of peace? There wasn't even a vestige of fright in her as she moved forward to face him with her head held high - she didn't have much of it left in her. Besides, seeing him in flesh evoked only anger and hatred; she knew that in such a situation, with her guards surrounding her and the whole castle being on her side, out there in the open, he would not hurt her. 

On the other hand, maybe _she_ could hurt _him_? That was an interesting concept to consider. She couldn't care less about any Bolton lineage once she would be gone, therefore there was no reason for her to want him alive. 

"Lady Bolton!" Ramsay grinned at her as she approached him. Her guards stepped protectively before her, and the bastard didn't move any closer, assessing. "I hope you will forgive me for the intrusion. I just heard the good news, and I thought I had to come here to congratulate you in person! This is so exciting!"

She stared coldly at him, the edge in his eyes telling her what the cheer in his voice tried to camouflage. Not that she needed anything to confirm his true intentions. 

"I won't." She wasn't going to be polite. No one could force her to say at least a single positive thing to him. "You shouldn't have bothered to come all the way here," she continued icily, remembering their last conversation all too well.

"Oh, but I had to!" He grinned even wider, without a care for the ice in her voice, the cheer not reaching his eyes once again. "Tell me, am I going to have a brother or a sister?"

"It is none of your concern. Why do you presume you’d even get to meet them?” 

There was a trace of confusion in his attitude; probably, he didn't expect her to be so feisty. She might have been fierce during their last encounter, but in general, he must have remembered her more for the naive young girl who had been struggling to find her ground. Sansa had known she had changed, but it was only now that she realized the extent of those changes. There were no remnants of that girl inside her; a grown woman, aware of her power and worth, the true she-wolf, was all that was left. 

"The little lord or lady will need their big brother to protect them, and teach them about the world. I would be delighted…" She didn't even listen to him, her eyes boring into him with the most heated hatred she could only elicit. 

“You’ve tried to rape me. You threatened me, and promised to kill my people if I wouldn't stay quiet," she reminded him in case he forgot. "I'd never trust a person who tried to hurt me with my child.”

“I deeply regret that day, my lady.” His voice sounded serene as he bowed his head in submission, but Sansa knew he was a good actor. He didn’t regret anything; someone so devoid of human emotions could never feel any sense of remorse. “I hope you will be able to forgive me one day.”

“I won’t.”

As their eyes met she saw there a reflection of all the things he intended to do to her; in other circumstances, fright might speak up louder than bravery, going in pair with reason. Right now, however, there was no place for reason. Maybe if he had come the other day, before she had read Petyr's letter, she would have been more cautious. But now, she was in a fighting spirit and had to let all of her negative, murderous emotions escape her. They just happened to find a perfect target. 

She almost started to truly consider hurting him when a sound of footsteps reached her ears, and she immediately recognized who they belonged to. 

"Ramsay." Roose's voice was neutral, but Sansa knew him well enough to catch a trace of an edge in it. "We weren't informed of your visit."

"I wanted to surprise you. Just like you did." Ramsay gestured towards her belly with an artificial smile on his lips.

"Yes, this is a rather pleasing surprise, don't you think?" Roose approached her and stood close behind her, draping his arm over her, his hand grasping the one she had laid on her belly. He seemed tense against her, and Sansa pondered how peculiar it was that between the three of them, she was now the most murderously inclined and the calmest at the same time. She squeezed Roose's fingers, wondering if she could help him relax at least a little bit this way. 

The air was heavy, almost suffocating, but somehow Sansa didn't experience it much, focused on imagining Ramsay's head on a spike. It was a pleasant picture.

“Of course. I’m very happy for you, Father.” With the slightest bow of his head and a serene tone, one could almost feel Ramsay genuinely meant it. Without knowing him, of course.

“Thank you, Ramsay.” Roose intertwined his fingers with hers, and slightly relaxed. She wondered whether he felt her calmness spreading to him, or were it other factors that contributed to him losing his tension. Either way, she decided to finish that meeting, ideally humiliating Ramsay some more. She knew it would bring her much-needed glee. 

“Do you remember what I told you when you were last here?” she asked, her voice as cold and stern as she could only muster. Ramsay looked at her, his face blank.

“Yes. You never wanted to see me here again,” he answered with a sad, small smile of someone deeply regretting such a turn of events.

“And yet here you are.”

“And yet here I am.” He straightened, his hands going behind his back in an attempt to pose as threatening. He didn’t succeed. “As I told you, I just wanted to congratulate you in person. Nothing else. If my presence here is still unwanted, I will bid you my farewell.” 

"It is unwanted and will always remain such. And you shall always remember that." 

If looks could kill, there would be a few corpses scattering the floor. Ramsay stared at her for a moment, like he was waiting for something to change, for Roose to turn on her and take his side. But seconds passed and nothing like that happened. Sansa's emotions transformed into irritation and she was just going to tell him he already prolonged his stay when he decided he had enough. 

“Lady Bolton. Father.” He bowed before them and walked away, leaving them in the corridor, staring in his wake. 

The remaining tension in Roose vanished the moment Ramsay disappeared from their sight, and she turned swiftly around to face him. 

"See? I did not hurt him, even though I wanted to," she decided to gloat, proud of herself for not letting even a grain of fear infect her mind during that encounter. 

Roose's eyes swept softly over her face as he reached his hand and stroked her cheek. It looked like she impressed him with the way she had treated Ramsay, and despite herself, it made her feel even prouder. 

"How could you be so calm?" he asked, and she cocked her head, thinking about the answer. There was a wide variety of reasons, but he could never know the majority of them. 

"Because I'm no longer afraid," she admitted truthfully. At least not of Ramsay - there were more perilous enemies after her and her baby. "And I knew you would protect me," she added, smiling, and proceeded to plant a soft kiss on his lips. Her broken heart fluttered in her chest, remembering the pain and misery it inflicted upon itself. 

"I would," Roose assured her, and she knew it was the truth. "He probably wanted to see how well we, or rather you, are guarded." 

“Let's hope he still doesn’t have enough people.” She recalled their first-ever Ramsay-related conversation, silently marveling at how everything had changed in the span of those few moons. 

“He doesn't. We'll deal with him accordingly when the time comes."

_I'll deal with him_ , she thought, trying to prevent that idea from being seen in her eyes. Instead, she just nodded her head and changed the topic, swallowing the bile that grew in her throat. 

“Thank you for letting the men wait for me in the Great Hall." After a momentary consideration, she added much quieter, "...and for yesterday. I really needed it.” She decided it was worth mentioning, despite everything. He had stayed with her and let her cry herself to sleep in his embrace; that wasn't something she would have thought him capable of. And yet, the other day he had proved to be both her shield against the outer world and the utmost threat to everything she had achieved as far. 

He nodded in acknowledgment, and as she predicted let the latter comment slide. It would be talking about emotions, and that was something he was not capable of. Yet.

"You shall consider telling them you won’t be at their service whenever they feel like it. Soon you wouldn't be able to accommodate all their needs. And you shouldn't. You are their ruler, not the other way around.”

Although she had reached slightly different conclusions, she couldn't deny he also had a point. There had to be a balance here, for her as a ruler and as herself, especially as a mother. And she was yet to find that balance. 

“I’ll consider it.” She nodded, wondering.

The men cramped in the Great Hall greeted her with cheer. She smiled at them gently, but also couldn’t help a sting of irritation growing inside her. Roose was right, they couldn’t expect her to appear whenever they saw fit, basically throwing a tantrum when she did not. She was their lady, not their servant. Of course, in a way, she was a servant for the good of her country, and she was ready to sacrifice a lot for it. But she had to find that balance somehow, or else she would get lost either way - wanting to do too much for her people or substantially ignoring them. Both approaches weren't suitable for the ruler she wanted to become. 

Words flew naturally as she thanked them for their patience, apologized for her absence, and explained that in the future such episodes will appear more often, until maybe her condition will no longer allow her to focus on them. Asked who they should turn to then, she answered instinctively, almost without thinking.

Well, lord Bolton of course.

They did not seem pleased. Sansa, on the other hand, felt some morbid satisfaction. And she had no idea why.

Wolkan had warned her the second period of her pregnancy would soon come to an end, and in the following weeks, Sansa was slowly starting to sense it. Her belly seemed to be growing with every single day, making her feel heavier and heavier. Pain in her back started appearing from time to time, and she suspected it was there to stay. Her horizons continued to narrow, her body losing a lot of its appetites. She stopped visiting Roose at nights quite abruptly, but later reconsidered. She knew she would not be feeling any better up to the delivery; on the contrary, her general state would deteriorate, becoming more uncomfortable with every passing day. Considering she was planning on assassinating her husband as soon as the babe was born... It might be the last occasion to feel him. It might be the last time for them.

She wanted it to be different, to feel like it was the last, so she could savor it, bathe in the pleasure, the last one he would ever give her, the last one they would ever share together. There were so many things she had thought she would do, but never had; they will forever remain a mystery. She will never know his body the way he knew hers, she will never get to know his taste or return the favor of some pleasures. It was already too late for that, however much she would like it to be otherwise.

And so one night, though she was tired and slightly achy, she called for one of her guards, the youngest one of them who she considered being the least prone to ever deceiving her. The man looked into her chamber, and she smiled at him from her resting position on the bed.

“Could you ask Lord Bolton to come here?” she asked him immediately. She was both too tired to actually walk to and back from Roose's chamber, and simply preferred him coming to her. In a way, it was yet another confirmation of her power over him. 

“Of course, my lady.”

The man disappeared, and in the meantime she settled herself more comfortably against the pillows, feeling the fluttering inside her, coming both from the baby’s movements and the excitement already building within her. The thought Roose would not come didn’t appear in her mind even for a split second.

When he finally arrived in her chamber, without even knocking, she straightened up and smiled at him.

“You summoned, my lady.” He sounded rather mockingly as he bowed before her, a gesture they hadn’t exchanged in quite a while. She looked at him disapprovingly, not taking the bait.

“Yes.” Deciding to get straight to the point, she continued immediately, “I’m feeling slightly tired, but also...” she was searching for the right word, but found none proper in her vocabulary. _I want to feel you for one last time,_ her mind tried to help, but she quickly chastised it, hoping her eyes didn’t betray such a thought.

“Unsatiated?” he offered, and she couldn’t help but blush.

“Yes. So I thought that maybe... we could go gentle and slow today?” she bit her lip in anticipation. She truly wasn’t in the mood for their usual rides.

“We could.” _Could_ didn’t mean _will,_ but since the bedroom was the only place where she currently truly trusted him, she didn’t feel anxious about his intentions. 

“Good.” She got out of the bed and approached him sheepishly. Taking his hand she led it to her belly, and they both sensed the little one kicking. “He’s already impatient to get out,” she said with a slight beam.

Roose gazed up at her, his other hand going up to rest on her cheek as he pulled her closer and kissed her, first leisurely, just tasting her lips, then more boldly, exploring her with his tongue. She sighed into his mouth, giving in to it, for numerous times wondering if all men knew how to kiss like that, or was she just lucky enough to have a husband skilled in the matters of a widely understood bedroom.

They undressed one another unhurriedly, and when they both stood naked in front of each other he gently pushed her towards the bed. She lay down on her back, with him following her a moment after.

“Turn on your side.” She did as she was told, and felt him doing the same until she was completely nestled against him, her body plastered to his. It was something new, and for a moment the intimacy took her breath away. She could sense him with every fiber of her being, and it scared her how good, how right, it felt.

He moved her slightly so his arm got underneath her, and draped her upper leg over his. She could feel his hardness pressing against her thigh, but it was not yet the time for the main course. His mouth started planting kisses on her neck, his teeth occasionally nibbling at her earlobe as his fingers fondled with her breast, the other ones going down and brushing her folds. She moaned softly, arching so she could be even more fitting to the frame he created. He circled her bud for a moment, until her breath caught, then experimentally teased at her opening. Deciding she was already wet enough, he positioned himself at her entrance and pushed into her slowly, inch by inch.

First, she immediately arched at the sensation; it was so good, her tiredness and achiness going away. But, as he filled her up, she felt him reaching some new depths - it seemed so deep panic went aflame within her, spreading through her heart. What if they touched the babe and hurt it? What if something bad happened and it was all their fault? Maybe at this point, it would become dangerous? 

Roose immediately felt her stiffening in his arms and stilled his movements. "What?"

"I..." She turned her head around as much as she could and looked at him, her gaze conveying all of her sudden terror. "What if it hurts the baby? Now that it's so… advanced?"

Interesting she had never thought about it before. Maybe it was because this time it seemed different, she truly felt him going deeper than usual, reaching something that quite possibly should have remained unreachable. 

He shook his head almost immediately.

"If babes were lost every time men took their due, in any part of pregnancies, there would be no children in the world."

"But my septa told me men detest women's bodies once they change," she murmured, suddenly recalling that part of her teachings. She was perfectly aware now the teachings had been entirely wrong and incomplete in so many topics, but that one seemed raw and real, inducing fright. If men detested their lovers’ bodies, they wouldn’t touch them; therefore, no babes would be lost because of it.

There was bewilderment in his eyes, and then he chuckled darkly, which startled her. Had she ever heard him chuckling?

"Your septa was a fool." He cupped her face and kissed her, and for a moment she forgot her fright, for a moment she was back within her fire. "Have you seen yourself?" He murmured, resting his forehead against hers and caressing her cheek. His hand slid down her body, until it rested on her breast, gently outlining its lower curve. "Fuller, more sensitive, ripe for the taking." She blushed heavily but didn't look away from him, as for the first time she heard him assess his prize aloud. His hand moved onto her belly, caressing it. "Satisfaction it was my seed that created this." She shuddered at the filth in his words, but the fire grew and she felt the need for him to move. "And this?" She gasped as he suddenly tugged at her bud of pleasure. "It is delightful how you dissipate in merest moments, screaming my name like your life depends on it, basically begging me to fuck you harder...” Was she like that? She had never asked him to _fuck_ her, but her intentions were just the same… There had never been a need to clothe it into words. But yes, she had usually wanted him to _fuck_ her, and she was in no aspect ashamed of it. “If these are the changes men supposedly detest, I feel sorry for them."

She giggled, started at the sound of her own voice, and let her head fall back on the pillow, relaxing. He thrust once into her and she mewled at the blissful stretch.

"Besides, I'm sure Wolkan would have told you if that was the case," he added, picking up a steady, leisurely rhythm, his fingers coming back to where they belonged. 

"But he may not know we still engage in such... activities," she managed to stutter, and could basically feel him smirk against her ear. 

"Trust me, the whole Winterfell knows we still engage in such activities." She blushed heavily, but nodded, accepting his arguments. Wolkan would surely have told her if they should stop, he cared for her well-being possibly more than Roose himself. Besides, if there was some harm in this, it would probably find its way into the book the maester had given her, and it didn’t. 

She allowed herself to completely relax, and it didn’t take him long to lead her towards the first completion. There were no cries of pleasure, just soft, quiet moans - it was too gentle and leisurely to cry out at the top of her lungs.

His pace was still the same, his thrusts hitting all the right spots, his fingers alternating their movements and pressures, working her up again, and again, and again. She lost count of how many times she managed to reach her peak; maybe it was one constant wave, only varying in intensity?

Finally, she got numb from all the pleasures and the stretch, she wasn't sure she would be able to take much more. Only quiet sighs escaped her mouth as her muscles went sore, and the tiredness started returning. 

"Come for me, Roose," she purred, pressing their bodies tighter together, reaching her hand backward so she could touch his face, his back, wherever she could reach. Soon, he did as he was told.

For a moment he didn’t move, his lips lingering on her neck, as he was still holding her tightly. Her hand rested on his head, and she didn’t really want to let go of him. Not yet, not when it felt like this, not when it was supposed to be their last time.

He tried to disentangle him from her, but her body didn’t let him, almost on its own accord. 

"Stay," slipped suddenly from her mouth, as she turned her head to look at him. It terrified her how badly she wanted him to stay - it felt so good lying here in his arms, snuggled to his warm, strong body, feeling safe and protected. That was what she had always wanted, wasn't it? Peace. Safety. Feeling of belonging. And maybe that was exactly where she belonged - in her bedchamber, in her husband's secure embrace.

"Another time." The feeling vanished in a heartbeat. He couldn't stay not knowing whether she didn't have any weapon stashed under her mattress, could he? It would be a risk, and he wouldn't take any for her.

She didn’t comment on it, shielding herself behind the wall of coldness as he planted a parting kiss on her lips, got dressed, and ultimately left.

_There won’t be another time,_ she thought, hugging her pillow in a desperate attempt to generate at least some of the warmth he had taken with him. _Never again._

_Never_ sounded so eternal... But it was the only right way, and she knew it. 

That night she dreamed of a family. Not some undisclosed, blurry family, but the three of them. Living. Thriving. Loving...

And she wished - oh, how much she wished - for it to be true. 


End file.
